


Murderer's Row: Vol.2 - The Cost of Obsession

by ViolentMedic



Series: Murderer's Row - Prison!AU [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Animal Death, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emetophobia, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Inaccurate and Exaggerated Medicinal Effects, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mutilation, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 286,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentMedic/pseuds/ViolentMedic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after Donut was first locked away in Valhalla Penitentiary, things have settled down since his first few months there. He's not afraid of everything any more. He's got friends now. Friends who are sometimes assholes, but friends. And any enemies made since he ended up there? Well, they've been quiet lately.</p><p>But it's not to last. A mixture of fleeing victims, old grievances and paranoia, flag-worshipping maniacs, old smugglers who want freedom and a lot of awkward emotions are going to cause the prison to devolve once again into a giant clusterfuck. And not the good kind of clusterfuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: Five Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> For those who haven't read Vol.1, go back and read it. This'll be much longer and likely rather confusing if you haven't read the first volume. This is really only a second volume because volumes make tagging easier.
> 
> Remember to check the tags carefully, because a lot of bad stuff from the previous volume only gets increased during this one. Although I'll say up front that, while there is obvious non-consensual content, it will always skip past anything too gratuitously graphic, but there's still likely enough detail to be triggering, so tread lightly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years after Donut arrived in the prison, they get a new inmate. Meanwhile, the same bullshit that's always happens continues to happen, and Wash voices a concern with York.

"I got dibs on you, boy. You're a Red now."

Sarge circled the new inmate, as was his tradition. Intimidation inspires loyalty, he always said. Worked with the men back in the army. Works just as well in prison. Intimidate them by yelling and shooting the more useless members of the team. Especially if that member is Grif. He had to hand it to the new Red, though. Didn't look intimidated at all. Just stared back with a bored expression.

"Keep on my good side and you'll do fine in here. Besides, we outnumber the Blues by one now! Grif counts as a minus, so we're on a proper equal footing where we can kick their ass properly! What do you say to that, eh?"

The new inmate, Lopez, responded in Spanish. " _Yes. Playing violent sports with convicted murderers sounds like a completely sane idea._ "

"That's right. That's the kind of can-do attitude the Reds need. I like you, Lopez."

" _I don't reciprocate._ "

"You're just what this team needs. All we got so far are lazy turds and princesses concerned more with finding fabric softener than bloody and glorious victory! Okay, so Princess Peach a good source of comfy laundry whenever the wife is mad enough to stop washing my clothes, but that's not the point here."

Lopez just stared back at him. Few words. Sarge liked that. Probably eager to get on with the asskicking.

"Not to worry, amigo. They'll be plenty of time to destroy your enemies. North'll take you to your cell. Comprende?"

" _I already feel like my brain is dying._ "

"Glad to see we're on the same page!"

 

* * *

 

Five years after Donut had first been locked up, he'd become significantly less afraid of prison. There really wasn't much to fear when Caboose was watching his back. The few things that did scare him, such as O'Malley, had practically vanished during those five years. He saw O'Malley wandering around from time to time, but O'Malley just grinned at him and went about his business. It was creepy, but eventually Donut learned to brush it aside. Whatever O'Malley was so happy about, it wasn't his problem.

So, prison was no longer terrifying. But sometimes it could still be annoying. For example, someone kept stealing Donut's laundry whenever he tried hanging it out to dry. It had been a problem ever since Donut managed to acquire fabric softener and started washing his own clothes, rather than throwing them back into the laundry chute, where they'd be washed with crappy ingredients that made him itchy. He even earned some spare commissary stamps by doing the same for other inmates. Turns out he wasn't the only one wishing for underwear that didn't make his crotch itch.

Donut suspected the thievery was being done by the tiny guy with the high-pitched voice who worshipped the Red flag set up in the yard. He couldn't be sure, but the zealot's clothes looked much softer since the thievery begun. But he had yet to prove it, so he was going for the next best thing. Hanging his clothes so high up that Donut himself couldn't reach them unless he was sitting on Caboose's shoulders.

"Caboose, can you stop fidgeting? I'm gonna fall off!" Donut called down as he attempted to hang up his jacket.

"My shoulders are getting itchy."

"I just need a few more moments!"

Donut placed his hands against the wall to steady himself, before returning to securing his 'clothesline' with more tape. Admittedly, taping flimsy string to a wall was not the most efficient clothesline. But it was all he had, and even that had taken a while to find.

"Turn a little to the left."

"Uh... My left or your left?"

"We're facing the same... Your left."

Caboose turned carefully. Last time he had turned too fast and Donut had fallen off his shoulders. He was humming a song under his breath, looking around while Donut stuck more tape up.

"Alright... Almost done, just a couple more bits of tape..." As Donut messed around with the roll of tape he had in his hands, he heard Church's voice behind them.

"Caboose, what the hell are you doing?"

"Church!" Caboose turned around too quickly for Donut to keep his balance, and after a brief moment of flailing his arms around he fell off Caboose's shoulders and tumbled onto the pavement. "Oh. Um. That was not my fault. Buttermilk! Are you okay? If you do not remember what happened, I can tell you. It was the wind. It blew you over."

"I think I broke something," Donut whimpered, cradling his arm. Church looked at the two of them and shook his head.

"Dumbasses... Why the hell are you doing acrobatics in the yard?"

"I was setting up a clothesline..." Donut looked upwards to see that his clothesline was still attached to the wall. "Ooh, it stuck this time."

"Yeah, that isn't gonna stop people from stealing your clothes."

Donut flexed his hand experimentally and winced as pain shot through it. "Ow. Well, it was worth a try. I think I'm gonna check with Doc, see if it's broken or sprained or something."

"He'll probably make it worse if it is," Church remarked.

"Point taken."

"Anyway. Caboose. Need your help with something. Andy stole my cigarettes and won't give them back. I tried to talk to him, but every word he says makes me want to punch him in the face."

"I can do that. I will go ask him nicely and he will be nice back and everyone will be happy."

"Right, whatever. Move it."

Once Caboose received the note and trotted off, Donut asked, "Why don't you just get Tucker to do it?”

"Caboose gets along with Andy for some reason. Plus, last time I got Tucker to talk to him, Andy set fire to his shoes and managed to work several insults about his mother into the conversation. And I don't want Tucker bitching about how long it took him to convince another inmate to trade shoes again. And that's just when Andy hasn't tried to make homemade explosives." Church shrugged. "If it comes to outrunning explosives, Caboose will do better than Tucker."

"Well... true…"

Tucker hadn't been much of a runner since the Miller incident. If he put too much stress on his lungs his breathing started to mess up. Not to mention he often complained about the pain and lack of painkillers. The complaints tended to increase during the games of whatever sport Sarge actually had the equipment for, although Donut strongly suspected Tucker was just trying to get out of doing anything. Not that it mattered, as the games largely consisted of Sarge abusing Grif for his laziness, Caboose accidentally punching Church somehow and everyone being really cranky by the end of it.

'Bonding exercises' never seemed like a good term for them, despite what Flowers said.

 

* * *

 

"You're unusually happy for winter."

Grif had been humming as he messed around with the plastic bags that held pruno. He paused before looking up at Simmons, who was standing at the entrance to his cell.

"Yeah. Winter's still shit, though."

"Then why the happiness?"

"Because..." Grif brandished one of the plastic bags. Unlike the usual bags of pruno, which contained orange or red liquid, the liquid inside this one was clear, if slightly oily-looking. "Ta-da! Moonshine! Fucking white lightning in a cheap, plastic bag! I am gonna drink myself into a coma with this stuff. By the time I wake up, we'll be walking free. It'll be awesome."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you're not doing that. You'll just dissolve your insides, and then I'll have to donate mine to keep you alive. And then I'll have no organs and I'll die."

"Maybe you can replace yours with machinery."

"Don't be a dumbass. Why wouldn't you just get the robot organs?"

"Ugh. Fine. I won't drink myself into an organ-dissolving coma. What are you, my mother?"

"You sound like Sister."

"Shit, I do." Grif shook his head. "Jeez. Maybe I'm channeling her spirit or something. She hasn't visited in a while, come to think of it." Grif paused, counting on his fingers for a few moments. "Five or six months? I'm not sure."

"Worried?"

"Well, I wasn't before, but... Great. Fucking great," Grif sighed. "I'm gonna have to get really drunk to stop worrying now."

"She'll be fine." Simmons patted Grif on the shoulder briefly. "She's, what, thirty-one now? That's old enough to, you know… do things."

"Thirty-one... Shit, I'm feeling really old now.”

"And let me guess... It makes you want to get drunk to forget about it."

"You know me so well.”

 

* * *

 

When Caboose returned from retrieving Church's cigarettes he was also holding a burnt, soaking jacket. Nonetheless, he looked happy.

"Did Andy set fire to you?" Donut asked, alarmed.

"He said it was a game! If I didn't get too burnt when taking it off, then he would give me Church's cigarettes back." Caboose smiled happily, holding up the cigarettes. "I won! And I only burnt some of my arm! But Andy got taken to the moccasin because York says the 'setting people on fire' game is not allowed."

"Caboose... We've been through this. Setting people on fire is not a game," Donut said patiently. "Turn around, let me see your arm." Donut looked closely at the fresh burn on Caboose's forearm. "Does it hurt?"

"It is stingy."

"Okay, we'll go see Doc in a moment. He can't mess up a burn, right?"

"The stuff he puts on them hurts," Caboose said, edging a couple of steps back. "Can I get Margretta? I left her on my cot and I need something to hug when the pain happens."

"Sure. Better get your spare jacket, by the way. It's freezing."

Donut followed Caboose back to his cell, as Caboose complained about how the burns ruined the fun of the 'setting people on fire' game and about how it's a good thing he knows how to take his jacket off really fast. As Caboose trotted into his cell, Donut stopped and peered further down the hall. Grif and Simmons were milling around near his cell.

"What's going on? Why you hanging around outside my cell?" Donut asked curiously, bouncing up to them. "Is it a surprise party?!"

"Why would it be a surprise party?" Simmons asked. "And no, we're not having any parties around you. I still haven't gotten the hotpants incident out of my head."

"Yeah, that was a bad idea," Donut admitted. "It's too cold for hotpants and I ruined a set of my regular pants to make them."

"Ugh, that's not the problem with hotpants, Donut."

Grif wasn't paying much attention to this exchange, instead peering at the cell next to Donut's. That cell was usually empty. There'd been an inmate in there for a few days, but he'd vanished quickly. Donut didn't know what had happened to him, though rumor was that the macaroni from the cafeteria sent him to the hospital. The macaroni had finally been taken off the menu after that in exchange for a stew, whose ingredients were unknown.

Today, however, Donut could hear someone shuffling around inside.

"New guy?" Donut asked.

"Yeah, new dude." Grif looked at Simmons and raised his eyebrow. "What're you betting?"

"Put me down for ten bucks worth of stamps.”

Donut tilted his head. "Betting?"

"Whether the new guy will last, and for how long," Simmons said.

"Uh, guys? Do you bet on all the newbies?" Donut pointed at himself. "What about me? Did you?"

"I won five days of pruno ingredients because you didn't die in the first month," Grif said cheerily.

“I maintain that you cheated by telling him about the Church stuff,” Simmons grumbled.

"Oh, thanks," Donut muttered.

"Anyway." Grif nodded in the direction of the new guy's cell. "Ten bucks of stamps says he doesn't die or transfer for two months. He looks tough."

"You got a deal." Simmons and Grif shook hands briefly, following it with a fist bump and what looked like a secret handshake.

“God, you two are sick.” After a moment of consideration, Donut said, “Put me down for three months.”

Afterward initiating a similar but less elaborate handshake with Donut to seal the deal, the other two wandered back into Grif's cell. Donut edged closer to the new guy's cell, peering in through the bars.

The new inmate was pacing. Back and forth. Grif wasn't kidding when he said the guy looked tough. He had hair that was little more than stubble, a lot of muscle and a perpetually grumpy expression.

"You can actually do the shaved head thing and look tough," Donut said. The man looked at him, but didn't say anything. "I tried shaving my head completely to look tough a year after I came in, since Church and Tucker kept calling me Dye-Job? But going totally bald I just looked like an alien until it grew back and they still call me Dye-Job sometimes.” Donut touched his hair, now its natural brown. “It totally sucks. Anyway... Hi. I'm Donut." Donut held his hand out for a handshake. The other man just stared at it, and eventually Donut pulled it back. "What's up?"

" _You are_ _Princess Peach_ _?_ "

"Oh, you speak Spanish? I took Spanish classes in high school." Donut cleared his throat. " _My pencil is Donut. Bonjour._ "

" _...What._ "

"What?"

" _I understand English, idiot. Your Spanish is terrible._ "

Donut pouted. "Now that was just rude. Besides, we all know high school Spanish is the best preparation for speaking Spanish there is. So, you living in this cell now?"

" _No. I just find that hanging out in a cell surrounded by murderers is a fun way to spend my Tuesday._ "

"Yeah, playing tennis on Tuesdays does sound like fun. But anyways, that makes us... cell neighbours? Yeah, that sounds nice. What's your name, neighbor?”

" _Lopez. Please leave me alone._ "

"It's nice to meet you, too!"

"Lamington! I lost my jacket again. And the stingy burn is stinging more..." Caboose had left his cell, clutching his stuffed pigeon tightly.

"Alright, let's go. See you later. Lopez!"

Lopez shook his head before returning to pacing his cell. As Donut dragged Caboose towards the infirmary (making sure not to tug on the burnt arm) he noticed Caboose frowning, squinting like he was trying to think harder than he normally could.

"What's wrong?"

"I think I know him. But I cannot remember where I saw him."

"Really? Maybe you've just seen someone that looks like him," Donut suggested. "I mean, I first thought I'd seen my old roommate before, but it turned out he just had a similar vibe to a serial killer I'd seen on the crime shows Mama Julie watched. Thinking on that now, I probably should have been more suspicious of him after that first impression."

"No. I have seen him before. I remember, because I remember him speaking Spaniel."

"Spanish, Caboose. It's called Spanish. Although being able to talk to spaniels would be pretty awesome. I bet they know all kinds of things we don't.”

 

* * *

 

"That hurts," Caboose whined, flinching away from Doc.

"I know, Caboose. And I'm sorry, but if you would just stop playing the jacket game with Andy we wouldn't have to go through this every few months," Doc sighed. "I don't want to be bossy, but being set on fire is not good for your health. Now please stop squirming."

Donut was sitting in the corner, still flexing his hand and seeing if the pain had gone away yet. It hadn't. He watched Doc fiddle around with bandages and Caboose fidget and occasionally whine. Doc looked kind of nervous. Which was strange: even Doc could handle a burn. But he kept glancing at the infirmary door, and continuously shifted from foot to foot.

Looking around the room, there also seemed to be five times as many motivational posters as before. Donut gazed at a 'hang in there, kitty' poster while Doc finished tending to Caboose.

"Okay, you're done. Donut, what's wrong with you?"

"I landed on my hand. It hurts when I move it too much. Is it broken?"

"Uhhh..." Doc examined Donut's hand. "...Uh. I don't... think so. I can't really tell unless it goes all swollen and purple. Which it hasn't. So, I don't think it's broken. I can try wrapping it up if you want."

"Uh... No, if it's not broken then I think I'll be fine," Donut said quickly. He didn't want to end up having hands like Miller. Just seeing those twisted, discoloured lumps had always made Donut nauseous. Even if for some reason they seemed to cheer Caboose up. Didn't matter anymore, since Miller had been released two years ago. But even just the mental images of those hands made Donut shiver.

"Oh. Well, if you're sure," Doc said.

His tone seemed flat. Now that Donut was getting a close view, Doc didn't look well at all. He seemed too thin, and there were shadows under his eyes.

"You okay, Doc? You don't look very well. Sleeping alright?" Donut asked.

Doc blinked a couple of times before shaking his head and waving his hands in what was clearly meant to be a laidback, casual fashion, though it just looked like he was trying to chase away flies.

"I'm fine! I'm really, totally fine. Don't worry about it! I just get di-difficult patients sometimes, it's... it's not big deal, it's just part of the job!" he said in one of the falsest cheerful voices that Donut had ever heard.

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. I'm the doctor, right? Um, not that I want to rub the degree that I definitely have in your face or anything. Anyway." Doc gestured at Donut's hand. "Come back if it turns a weird colour."

"Okay."

Donut had to drag Caboose away from staring at one of the other cat-related posters, and on the way back to the yard Caboose started talking about the cats he'd had at home.

"And then one time, Apples got stuck up a tree. And I had to climb up and get her. It was scary. And Mama did not like that, because she said I could get hurt again..." Caboose babbled. "And then Papa said I could not climb up 'the goshdarn tree because the fudging cat climbed up.' Actually, he said much ruder words, but Mama said I must never repeat them. Church says those words a lot. At me, a lot of the time. I don't think it is very nice. But that is okay. Church is still my bestest buddy."

"Right." Donut tried to stop himself from frowning. He still didn't understand why Caboose was always so loyal to Church. Most of the interaction between the two seemed to consist of Church shouting or telling him to do things. If it wasn't for Caboose's constant proclamations that Church was his best friend, then Donut would have thought that it was blackmail that kept Caboose so loyal. But whenever he asked Caboose why, the answer was always 'I do not want to talk about it.'

"...and then I had to sleep on a bench and eat trash hotdogs. It was very uncomfortable," Caboose finished.

Donut realised he had zoned out, and quickly tried to change the subject before Caboose noticed he hadn't been listening. Sure enough, in a couple of minutes they were back to talking about 'speaking Spaniel.'

 

* * *

 

"You got nothing on him?"

Tucker shrugged. "I can't understand what he's saying. What do you want me to do? I can't just spontaneously learn Spanish. Sorry, Church, but I ain't a fucking genius."

Church pushed his 'mystery stew' around with his spoon. It may have been less dangerous food than the macaroni, but Church preferred it when he actually knew what he was eating. This stew could have been rat for all he knew. It was also a weird colour... Tucker seemed to love the stuff, though.

"You gonna finish eating that?" Tucker asked, pointing his spoon at Church's food.

"'Course I'm gonna fucking eat it, now stop asking!"

"Aww, but it's just like what Mom used to make. Greasy and with ambiguous ingredients. Anyhow, all I've managed to figure out is that his name is Lopez. I think. Sounded the most like a name out of the words he said." Tucker stretched his arms above his head. "I'll try to get more out of him later. Maybe take a Spanish dictionary with me or something." Tucker lowered his arms, gazing at Church's food. "You sure you're gonna eat that? Because I'm really hungry. And my chest is really hurting today."

"The sympathy card doesn't work on me, you dumbass."

"Yeah, well the 'annoying-you-until-you-either-give-me-what-I-want-or-smash-me-over-the-head-with-a-tray' card does."

“Well, fuck.” Church glared at Tucker. "I hate you. You know that?"

"Oh, you know you love it. Now come on, hand it over."

Church gazed down at his half-eaten stew, then shoved it in Tucker's direction. Anything to stop Tucker from annoying him. Even just the threat of him playing that card was often enough. Tucker scraped up a large spoonful with a grin.

"Tastes like victory," Tucker said through his food. "And on that note... Sarge's dumb games are gonna suck now that 'the reds' have another guy. It's painful enough as is. Might be better not to make this Lopez guy mad, he might start 'accidentally' punching us in the face during it.”

Church rubbed his nose. "Yeah. Eh, I'm sure he's got something we can blackmail him about. We just gotta figure out what the fuck he's talking about, first."

"Maybe you can ask Simmons. I think he's of a Latino persuasion.”

 

* * *

 

Doc stared at the same poster that Donut had been looking at half an hour ago. It happened to be his favourite motivational poster in the room. Looking at a cat holding onto a clothesline always cheered him up. Doc really needed cheering up, these days.

It felt like everything was losing the appeal it once had to Doc. He tried flicking through the books on yoga and tai chi, but he couldn't concentrate on them. Most of the motivational posters did nothing. The hanging kitty was the only one that made him happier nowadays. Even his favourite duck-covered curtains didn't manage to cheer him up.

It was weird. Doc crossed his arms, still staring intently at the hanging kitty poster. Like it would somehow bring him inner peace. Or at least the courage to run away from this infirmary. From this job. From the red-haired inmate that often stopped by.

When the door swung open, Doc immediately turned around. He didn't want to be caught with his back towards O'Malley. Again.

"I'm impressed. You didn't try hiding this time," O'Malley said, grinning at him.

Doc fidgeted. For a while, his response to anyone opening the door had been to roll under one of the cots and try to hide, just in case it was O'Malley. That hadn't worked well. Hiding under the cot had just stopped Doc from backing away once O'Malley found out he was there.

"I... I told you, I wasn't hiding," Doc muttered. "I was... looking for... something I dropped…"

"Lies don't suit you, Doc." Two steps forward. "And lying to me? I'm hurt. You wouldn't want to hurt me, would you? Although I suppose it wouldn't be the first time you'd damaged me.”

Doc looked away, obvious guilt crossing his features. His eyes flickered down to the obvious tremor in O'Malley's hands, something that had been absent five years ago.

“It was an accident.”

“Oh, most of the terrible things you do are accidents, Doc. But you can't say it was a complete accident.” O'Malley's grin had an edge to it and his eyes were chillier than normal. “Was it really an accident that you played around with my medication so much?”

“Uh… well..."

Doc didn't want to say no, but he had no other answer.

Over the last five years, he'd mucked around with O'Malley's medication much more than what was healthy. The strength and effect of O'Malley's medication did tend to depend on two factors. How scared Doc was of him at the time and how guilty he was about the effects of whatever drugs O'Malley was already on.

For the first couple of years since O'Malley had declared Doc 'property' he'd slowly pushed his way into Doc's boundaries. Pushed those touches and kisses a bit further each time. The more he did so, the more afraid Doc got. The more Doc had to scrape at his skin to make that crawling feeling O'Malley gave him go away. And the more that happened, the more he meddled with the medication. Hoping he'd find some sort of magic formula that would stop O'Malley from touching him.

A couple of years in, Doc thought he'd found something. A combination of meds that left O'Malley easily distracted while stopping short of transforming him into a drooling vegetable. It had worked well for Doc. Any time O'Malley had showed up at the infirmary with the intent of harassing him, Doc just had to draw O'Malley's attention to something else. Preferably something noisy or something that was visually changeable. Occasionally, O'Malley's own hands would do the trick. But that was when O'Malley developed tremors in his hands, and gotten progressively more fidgety. Eventually, he'd come down with fever and drug rash.

Doc wasn't sure how it'd happened, but he'd been legally required to take O'Malley off those pills and told specifically to 'stop monkeying about with the medication.' And O'Malley was back on the same meds he'd been on five years ago, but now he had a permanent case of the shakes. And Doc was left knowing that any more meddling might have killed O'Malley. Doc might be terrified of him, he might not like the things he did when they were alone—and his skin crawled just thinking about it—and occasionally he might even hate him. It turned out Doc was capable of hate, after all. But he didn't want to kill him.

He didn't want to be like O'Malley.

“Besides. If apologizing made everything better then there wouldn't be any need for prisons. And you, my pet, would be out of a job.” O'Malley grinned wider and walked towards him. Doc averted his eyes. He tried staring at his duck-covered curtains, instead. Didn't work, especially when O'Malley reached out to grasp his face and make sure that Doc was looking at him.

He knew what was coming.

“O'Malley, no, I… I don't want you to… It's not allowed...” Doc mumbled, like he had every time this occurred in the last five years. As if pointing out that inmates and staff members weren't allowed to engage in what O'Malley called fun would stop him.

"Now, do you think I'd be in here if I cared about little rules like that?" O'Malley purred.

Doc knew how this dance went. He'd weakly argue, but never properly stand up for himself because O'Malley had the innate ability to make Doc feel guilty for doing so, even though Doc knew he had every right to protest.

The only break he received was that O'Malley was, due to the medication side effects, easily distracted. Doc's hands edged into his pockets, and he felt around. Looking for something distracting enough. But Doc's brain never worked well when O'Malley was around (especially when his calloused hands were stroking his face like that) so he just grabbed the first thing he found and waved in front of O'Malley's face. Unfortunately, that thing had been his apartment keys.

O'Malley's eyes followed them for a few seconds, then he grabbed them out of Doc's hands and backed away, jumping onto one of the cots to examine the keys.

"Uhm, could I have those back? I need them, the last time an inmate took my keys I had to sleep outside that night..." Doc asked quietly.

"Nah." O'Malley shook them slightly. "I have no incentive to give them back. Nice keychain." He prodded the tiny cat wearing mittens that was attached, as well as a yellow smiley face keychain. "Cute. Something I would expect to see attached to the bag of a schoolgirl."

"Please? Please give them back?" Doc pleaded.

O'Malley shook the keys again, oddly reminiscent of a child shaking a particularly shiny toy. "No. They're my keys now. You should know better than to dangle things in front of my face. You belong to me, so logically anything that belongs to you belongs to me." O'Malley chuckled, turning the keys over in his hands.

"I-I don't belong…"

"Oh, yes you do. Actually..." O'Malley held up the keys, his eyes flickering from them to Doc. "Keys pale in comparison to you, my little pet.” He slipped them into his pocket before walking towards Doc, hands reaching out. One reaching to touch his face, the other resting on his neck where O'Malley could most easily feel Doc's pulse go haywire. “I'll give your keys back. Once you've amused me enough.”

Doc shook his head, shutting his eyes. Years ago his protests would have been more panicked. But he knew what was coming, and he knew that in the long run there was no way to stop it. "It's... It's not allowed..." he said feebly.

"And you're also busy and blah blah blah. Excuses, Doc.." O'Malley laughed. "Come on... You need your keys. Unless you want to sleep outside again."

Doc shook his head again, and let out a small squeak when he felt a wet tongue trace a line down his neck.

"No! No… I-I don't want to... I don't want you to... please stop touching me…"

O'Malley laughed, the sound muffled against his neck. "Aw, that's cute. You really think I care about what you want, Doc?"

Doc could protest, but it never did any good. Only increased his own guilt. Like it was his fault O'Malley had stolen his keys. That O'Malley had grown so horribly attached to him. That it was his fault that O'Malley had claimed his life. That it was his fault he was too afraid to stay but just as terrified of leaving.

Every time this happened, Doc lost. Every time, Doc eventually went quiet and still and let O'Malley do what he wanted because he was too afraid to fight back.

All he could do was try and block out O'Malley's hands touching where they shouldn't. Try to ignore the tongue and teeth, no matter how far down they went. He would try to hold back any noise—not just the whimpers or cries of pain, but any noises that might let O'Malley think he was enjoying it. Or worse, make him think to himself that maybe he was.

And when it really was over, when very distinct tastes had flooded his mouth—the taste of O'Malley's medicine, the taste of blood from O'Malley biting him, the taste of salt from, god, Doc didn't want to think about it, stop—O'Malley would grin down at him.

“You're so compliant, Doc. I almost think you enjoyed it,” he'd purr, as he traced Doc's face with sticky fingers. “Our little secret, remember.”

Tell anyone—or run—and there'd be hell to pay. That's what 'our little secret' meant.

O'Malley would leave. And Doc, still holding his reacquired keys, would fix his clothing and wipe away the fluids and rinse out O'Malley's taste with the strong, spearmint-flavored mouthwash that he kept in the infirmary.

All Doc could do was pretend that this never happened. He would try to forget, but he never could.

 

* * *

 

"Alright. I think the Lopez problem is fixed. Sort of," Church muttered. He and Tucker were sitting on the concrete in the yard, playing with an old set of cards.

"Yeah? You spontaneously learn Spanish?" Tucker asked. "Or did you ask Simmons about it?"

"I did, he yelled at me about being Dutch-Irish. Nah, Caboose said something about Donut knowing 'Spaniel' so I assumed he meant Spanish. So, we have someone who knows Spanish... problem is, it's fricking Donut. He doesn't exactly inspire fear. Hit me."

Tucker tossed down another card. "Twenty-three."

"Fuck."

They were betting whatever they had brought from Wyoming in the last month. At the moment, it was just cigarettes.

"You don't even smoke," Church complained.

"You're just jealous that I'm whooping your ass. So, what'd you do about Donut?"

"Told him to talk to Lopez about buying protection. Also told him to make things sound worse than they are, emphasize all the bad shit. You know, violence and raping and all that. And if Lopez rejects the deal, I told him to fish around for information about him. I have to buy some more fabric softener for him in return."

"Bet you five cigarettes he messes up."

"No deal."

"Five commissary stamps?"

"Fuck off."

Tucker started shuffling cards again. Church was glaring at him as he did so.

"You're not doing something weird with the deck, are you?"

"Oh, come on. Give me a little credit. I could, but I'm not." Tucker pulled a face. "Maybe if I was playing with someone else, I'd cheat. But it'd probably get me beat up anyway. And I don't cheat around you. You'd totally throw a bitch fit if I did."

"I would not throw a 'bitch fit.' I would just punch you in the face."

After some more card-playing, Tucker sighed and slipped the pack of cards into his pocket.

"Man. This ain't as fun as it was on the outside. Admittedly, I cheated there a lot. Less likely to get beaten up. I could run pretty fast if it came to that. Here... well, even if my lungs still worked, where would I run to?"

"Fuck, I dunno. I guess you could hide in the laundry closet or something.”

"Yeah, but that's not running. That's hiding." Tucker settled back against the brick wall. "Great, now I'm thinking of the outside. God, I miss the stuff out there. What I wouldn't give for a goddamn steak. Or alcohol that doesn't taste like orange juice."

"Yeah, suck it up."

"Also, I miss the ladies. And they're deprived of this." Tucker gestured downwards at himself. "It's a crime on humanity."

Church snorted. "Yeah, such a crime. Puts all the drug dealers and murderers in here to shame."

"Hell yeah it does. Hey, you miss anything on the outside?"

"No."

"Really? Nothing?"

"No. Nothing," Church replied. "World was fucking shit. In here it's fucking shit, too. But at least I got a good enough hold on it. For now, anyway." Though Church had to admit that probably wouldn't last forever. Finding dirt on people was harder when they all knew he was a scumbag.

"Right, guess that makes sense. But seriously? You don't miss the ladies?"

"I didn't know any ladies on the outside. I just had Tex."

"Heh. I hear you."

“Ugh, not like that, you dick. I just meant the ladies thing was singular.”

“Sure. I'm sure Tex would take it that way.”

"Fuck. Don't tell her I said that. She will punch me so fucking hard."

"Hey, I won't tell. Bros before hos, right?"

"Did you just call Tex a ho?"

"...Alright, I won't tell her what you said as long don't tell her what I said."

 

* * *

 

Grif drummed his fingers against the phone, waiting for Sister to pick up. He stopped drumming his fingers once he noticed how stained they were. Too many cigarettes, probably. They hadn't looked like that when he'd gotten locked up. But what else was he supposed to do? Quit? Nah, not gonna happen.

He hoped Sister would pick up the phone. He'd used up cigarette money on this call. If that money was wasted, Grif was gonna be pissed. Even though it would probably stop Simmons bitching at him about the dangers of smoking. For a few hours, anyway.

It only took a few rings for Sister to pick up, but it felt like longer to Grif. Maybe because he was a bit worried about her. Actually, he was always kinda worried. Sister just had a habit of getting into shit. But the lack of visits in the last few months hadn't helped. So when she finally picked up, Grif breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hey, Sis. What's going on?"

"Dex? Man, you haven't called me in forever, not since the first few months." Sister sounded fine, but there was an oddly nervous tone in her voice.

"You sound weird. Anything wrong? And you haven't visited in the last six months, what's up with that? Has anything bad happened? Or did I just offend you on your last trip here or something?"

"Nooo. It's got nothing to do with you, I was... just kinda busy, that's all…"

"That sounds suspicious…"

"Oh my god, why do you say that every time I say something weird?" Grif had to pull the phone away from his ear to stop himself going deaf at that rather sudden shout.

"Hey! I don't get suspicious at everything! But you're never busy. You're a Grif! We're natural slackers! We aren't busy people! We were born at a leisurely pace!"

"I know!"

"Okay. You gonna visit anytime soon?"

"Yeah, I guess... I'll be there next week. Stop being so pushy."

"I'm not being pushy. I'm just sick of hanging around with only Simmons and Donut to talk to." Grif could mentally see Sister opening her mouth to ask a question, and quickly added, "No, me and Simmons are not married. Stop asking."

"Aw... Come on, I want a brother-in-law."

"No, now stop asking!”

 

* * *

 

"...and then he shivved him with a shank. Or was it shanked him with a shiv? I can't remember. ...I dunno how to say shiv or shank in Spanish..." Donut paused, then continued chatting, following Lopez around the yard. "Anyway. Loads of shanking or shivving or whatever. I got stabbed on my first day here. Stung loads."

" _Yes, I would never have realised that being stabbed hurts if it wasn't for you telling me._ "

"Then I broke my leg a week later. Well... someone broke it for me. But yeah, that's just the first week. There's a lot of jerks here. And they eat people like chicken. Not literally. I don't think. I mean, I'm sure there's a cannibal around somewhere, what with all the different kinds of jerks they have in here."

" _Most likely._ "

"Anyway, then there's all that... erm... bending over stuff. Which I bet is not gonna be like gay sex on the outside. Probably more painful. I mean, it hasn't happened to me because I got protection, but there are some scary guys in here…"

" _If someone tries it on me, I will shove a metal pipe up their rectum._ "

"I knooow, the itchy jumpsuits totally suck as well. I can wash them for you, if you want. I have fabric softener. I mean, I'd have to charge a little, but not much. Like, fifty cents an item. Only because fabric softener is so expensive." Donut stopped again, then slapped his forehead. "God, I'm supposed to be talking in Spanish, aren't I? My bad... I keep forgetting."

“ _I can understand English. Although at the moment I wish I couldn't._ ”

"Cool. So, you gonna pay Church for protection? Information or money? I think it's a good deal."

" _No._ "

"Oh... Okay."

Donut had to admire Lopez's calmness. He'd spent the last half an hour telling Lopez about all the horrible things that had happened in this prison. Some of which were true, some were exaggerated and some were completely in the land of fiction. Lopez had barely reacted at all. The most Donut had got out of him was a raised eyebrow and he hadn't hesitated at saying no to Church's deal. He was taking this a lot better than Donut had.

Now that Lopez had rejected the deal, Donut moved onto fishing for information."So... Why'd you get locked up?"

" _Killed a man I owed debt to. He threatened to harm my wife. I decided it could not be left to chance._ "

"You killed your wife?"

" _What? No. Your Spanish is horrible._ "

"Hey, I'm not going to judge. Well, not much. I mean, I killed someone I lived with. Although they started it. It was terrifying. My roomie was really tall." Donut stretched his arms up to try and demonstrate the height, but he found he couldn't reach. "So... uhm... what'd you do on the outside?"

Donut continued to ask Lopez questions, despite the fact that Lopez kept speeding up and trying to leave him behind.

 

* * *

 

"You have a lighter on you, Wash?"

"No."

"Damn." York felt his pockets. "I could swear I had a lighter around. How am I supposed to light my smokes?"

"You could ask an inmate. Most of them keep lighters in their pockets. That's probably not good for safety," Wash muttered, looking out over the yard.

York shrugged. "Eh. Most of them don't set fire to things. Except Andy. I've tried taking his lighters away but he just always finds new ones. At least it's not as bad as that time he made 'pruno molotovs.' The twins got some bad burns from that." York looked around the yard. "Hey! Wyoming, can I borrow your lighter?"

"Only if you don't wander off with it this time."

York caught the lighter that Wyoming threw to him. As he attempted to light his cigarette, York saw Wash watching a couple of inmates on the other side of the yard. Donut and the new inmate, York couldn't remember his name…

"What's with you?”

“Hm?”

“You're doing your 'stare at Donut in that creepy way' thing.”

"Why does it matter?"

"I dunno. I thought you'd be watching an inmate that is... you know, actually dangerous.”

A few moments passed, during which York managed to light his cigarette and toss the lighter back to Wyoming. Then Wash said, "I don't trust him."

"You don't trust anyone."

"Especially not that one."

"Out of all the inmates you could choose to distrust, you choose him. Why?"

There was a long pause.

"I have reasons," Wash finally said.

York rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, Wash. It's Donut. He washes underwear for money. He's harmless. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

Wash gave York a look like he was a small toddler who'd said one plus one was eleven. "York. He's in here for murder."

"Well, yeaaah, but he said it was self-defence."

"Self-defence?!" Wash's voice abruptly climbed to the pitch where it started cracking, and he took a minute to take a breath. Once his voice was steady again, he said, "The guy he killed? Do you know anything about him?"

"No? Why would I?"

"Trust me. He shouldn't have been able to do that."

"Eh, life's just weird, y'know?" York tried blowing out smoke rings, but he couldn't quite manage it. They were more like smoke blobs. "You get suspicious at the weirdest things. Sometimes I worry about your sanity."

"I'm sane. Completely and totally sane."

"I know, man. I know.”


	2. Chapter Two: Never Have I Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lopez makes a visit to the infirmary. Visitor's day occurs, bringing with it mistaken opinions and surprises. And afterwards, a drinking game occurs.

Lopez had never held back saying what he thought. The world was full of idiots, and most of them didn't understand him anyway, so who cared if he insulted them regularly? This prison was no exception. If anything, it seemed to have an even higher concentration of idiots than the outside.

Lopez had been in prison once before for stealing a car, back when he was eighteen. But that had been different. He'd only been inside for a few months, and inside a relatively quiet prison at that. This one was not quiet. It was filled with idiots. In particular, the warden who seemed to believe he was still in the military and the inmate who felt like the personification of a cupcake.

There also hadn't been many violent prisoners in the other prison. In this one... it only took three days for some inmates to get violent. Unfortunately, Lopez had ended up snarking at a group of inmates who knew Spanish.

That had been, in retrospect, a stupid move.

Lopez had made it back to his cell, at least. The inmates hadn't thrashed him so badly that he couldn't walk. He was just very bruised. He'd left them with bruises, so it balanced out. But the fact that his mouth wouldn't stop bleeding was somewhat concerning.

If he'd been back home, Sheila would have checked him over thoroughly. Even if he felt fine, she would check just to make sure there were no broken bones. Perhaps being so concerned came with being a doctor. In any case, she'd made him promise to try and do the same in prison if possible. Pity that Lopez didn't actually know where the infirmary was and that he didn't know anyone who spoke proper Spanish. Or at least, no one who spoke proper Spanish and who Lopez hadn't yet offended.

As Lopez looked around his cell for something reflective so that he could see why his mouth was bleeding so much, he heard a yelp from a few cells down, on the Blue side of the cell block.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow…"

Lopez had a feeling that he was going to regret seeing what was happening in that cell, but maybe that was just because of his low opinion of the other inmates. Plus, if the other inmate was hurt he'd have to go to the infirmary too, allowing Lopez to follow and find out where it was.

Wiping off some of the blood that was still dripping down his chin, Lopez plodded over to the source of the noise. It was the big inmate he'd seen with the cupcake. Lopez couldn't remember his name. The situation was not dire; the inmate had just gotten a spoon stuck underneath the bandage on his arm.

"Ow, ow, ow..." The big guy continued to nervously tug on the end of the spoon. "I cannot get it ou—oh, hello, Mr. Spaniel!"

" _Mr. Spaniel? Are you mocking me? Also why did you stick a spoon under there in the first place?_ "

"Uhm... I understood what you said exactly."

" _Liar._ ”

"I cannot get the bandage off, either. Can you help me, Mr. Spaniel?" The big guy tilted his head, staring up at Lopez. "You are bleeding. How did that happen? Is it Tucker's fault? Or... maybe Donut's fault? They... they do things like that. Sometimes."

" _No. It was not the_ _cupcake_ _or the other one._ "

"You should go to the make-people-better place." The big guy lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "Although Doc is not very good at it."

" _Wonderful. This prison has a warden who is insane and a doctor who is incompetent. I am filled with confidence. But it doesn't matter. I don't know where the infirmary is._ "

"Yes? Wait, did I answer wrong? Was the answer no?"

" _Stop pretending you know Spanish._ " Lopez scratched the side of his face, frowning. The difficulties of communicating with idiots. Sheila was much better at this. Got through to them with gestures, mostly. Worth a shot.

"Where is the infirmary?" Lopez repeated, making awkward gestures to try and convey what he was talking about. Mostly trying to mimic Sheila communicating with her patients. Waving his hands around felt undignified. But almost immediately the big guy stood up, nodding.

"Ohhh, you do not know where it is? Why didn't you say so? I will take you there!"

" _Yes. That would be useful._ ”

 

* * *

 

It was one of those days when O'Malley wouldn't harass Doc. Not physically, at least. Instead, he would just sit on one of the cots and stare at him until the 'doctor' got really uncomfortable. Or he'd try, anyway. O'Malley was prone to getting distracted by, well... everything. So staring consistently at Doc was difficult. Much like keeping his hands still. Even now, as he sat there, his fingers were constantly drumming against the sheets, picking at his nails, peeling flakes of skin off. O'Malley had tried keeping them still, but he couldn't.

It was, in a way, a good thing O'Malley was so distracted. Dwelling on his inability to stop twitching tended to make him angry. Instead, he just started asking questions.

"So, Doc. Anyone else making fun of you lately?"

Doc wasn't looking at O'Malley, but at the same time wasn't keeping his back to him. He was afraid. O'Malley liked that.

"N-no."

"Are you sure? You're not lying, are you? I would be hurt if you were."

"No. No. Nothing has happened."

O'Malley frowned. He was hoping something had, in a way. Just so he could go and teach them to keep their hands off his things. He hadn't stabbed anyone in a while.

"Well, if you insist on that. What about on the outside? Met anyone new? I hope you haven't met, say, a lady friend... I might get jealous if that happened," O'Malley said, chuckling at the end. As if he would actually get jealous. He just didn't like people playing with what was his on a matter of principle.

"No. No, there's... there's no-one...”

"Right, you don't actually have a life outside this place. When was the last time you took a day off? Not for months. I imagine that's a good thing. You're the only, ah... I was going to say qualified doctor but we both know that's not true."

The door handle twisted at that moment, as someone hammered on the door from the outside. Normally the door was open but O'Malley had made a habit of locking the door whenever he went through it. The guards tended to kick up a fuss whenever he strayed into the infirmary, and O'Malley didn't appreciate the extra shoe time. So naturally, O'Malley climbed off the cot only to crawl under it.

"Not a word, Doc."

Doc sighed and nodded. Once he had told the guards where O'Malley was hiding. Doc had been punished for that. He knew better than to do it again. O'Malley was happy about that, because he preferred not to hurt Doc more than he needed. Didn't want his soft skin scarred.

From O'Malley's viewpoint under the cot, all he could see was feet. When Doc opened the infirmary door, two other pairs of feet walked in. Both inmates, O'Malley could tell from the cheap boots and the little bit of orange jumpsuit he could see.

"I need help. I got a spoon stuck under my bandage, and it is making the burns sting." That was Caboose's voice. Couldn't be mistaken for anyone else. O'Malley assumed for a moment that the other pair of feet belonged to the pastry, but they were too large for that.

"Why did you stick a spoon in there?" he heard Doc sigh.

"I had a very good reason."

"Which was?"

"Uh. ...It was Tucker's fault. This is Mr. Spaniel! I think someone hurt him but I do not know who."

Mr. Spaniel was probably not his real name. O'Malley edged a little closer to the edge of the cot. It wasn't as important that he didn't give away his position, now that he knew there was no guards. He wanted to see who this 'Mr. Spaniel' was, just in case it was someone interesting.

"Uh, Mr. Spaniel, is it?"

" _My name is Lopez. Not Mr. Spaniel, despite what this idiot says._ "

"Ooh. Spanish. Spanish is quite a nice language," Doc said. O'Malley saw Doc's feet walking forward to stop in front of Lopez. "Although what little I've picked up from what other inmates said to me is not very polite. Mostly insults, swears and such... Still, it's nice to know about other cultures."

O'Malley had a rudimentary understanding of Spanish, although he couldn't speak the language himself. A lot of patients he'd had in the past did, and knowing enough Spanish to tell what they were saying had helped. He knew enough to tell that the man was named Lopez.

"Oh, you're bleeding quite badly. Say 'ahhh.' ...I think you've lost a couple of teeth. I don't really know what to do about that. If you find your broken teeth we could try gluing them back in. Just retrace your steps."

" _Yes. Retrace my steps and walk back towards the men who attacked me. Sounds like a bright idea. Just as bright an idea as eating superglue to fix my teeth._ ”

O'Malley tried not to snicker. This one was a bit of a smartass. But at least he wasn't liable to do something completely stupid, it seemed. O'Malley had edged close enough to see Lopez better by then. Tall man. Looked tough. Not plaything material. But perhaps henchman material.

O'Malley had found many henchmen in the past. Before prison there had been Gary. That had been fun, even if technically they had been part of a larger group. Inside prison, there had been Wyoming, although he was only a borderline example. More of a connection forged through their mutual friendship with Gary. There had been Caboose, although that had only been for a few months until he ran off to Church.

All of those henchmen had been problematic in some way. Gary had been a liar. Wyoming worked for the highest bidder. Though he would help O'Malley, he wasn't above helping the other side. Caboose was dumb, which was a blessing and a curse. But this Lopez... He didn't have those problems, at least as far as O'Malley could see…

All he had to do was figure out what Lopez wanted to earn his loyalty. Shouldn't be too difficult.

" _Is anything else broken? I'm not concerned with teeth that cannot be fixed._ "

"I can give you some gauze?"

" _Your degree does you credit._ " After a moment of silence, apart from Doc shuffling around a little, Lopez added, “ _I'm leaving now. Hopefully they'll be a new doctor before I need something urgent._ ”

O'Malley saw Lopez's feet turn around and leave.

"You're leaving? Uh, adios? Okay, I'll get the spoon out now."

"That is good. Because it stings more than that time someone shoved macaroni in my ear."

"Oh, I remember that. That macaroni was not for the safety conscious…"

O'Malley tapped his fingers against the floor, grinning as he waited for Caboose to leave. The prospect of a new competent henchman cheered him immensely. Maybe then he could go back to finding those little bits of information that could be used against people. That was harder to do now that he was constantly twitchy.

Things had become quite dull around here since then. Doc was fun to play with, but variety was nice. Now that there was another option, O'Malley felt almost giddy.

 

* * *

 

When visitor's day came around, it resulted in a lot of people sitting outside said room, waiting for the time when they could finally go in. Often that time seemed to stretch on forever.

At the moment, Tucker and Lopez had already gone in. Donut was sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth impatiently. He hadn't seen either of his mothers in a while. Caboose was making a similar movement, although he was sitting much closer to the door and trying to see through it every time someone left or went in. Simmons was standing and leaning against the wall. Probably the least fidgety of all of them. But even if Donut and Caboose were a little bit restless, they were nothing compared to Grif.

Grif paced back and forth. If any conversation was directed at him, he'd deflect it and return to pacing. Occasionally he would stop and sit down on the ground, but within the next minute he would be back to pacing. When it was time for him to go in, he looked much more nervous than what was normal.

As soon as Grif was gone, Donut edged closer to Simmons. "What's up with him?"

“He's just worried about his sister. It's nothing new.” Simmons shrugged. “He does that a lot, even when she doesn't skip visits for six months. He's, uh… to say overprotective would be a massive understatement.”

“I haven't heard much about her. I saw the pictures he keeps on his wall, but that's about it." Donut recollected the pictures for a moment before nodding. "She was always wearing clothes in very clashing colours."

"She's colourblind."

"Well, of course. No one wears pink and red together unless—"

"WHAT THE FRIGGING FUCK, SISTER?"

Both Simmons and Donut jumped at Grif's shriek. Caboose quickly shuffled away from the door.

"I think Gruf exploded," he said timidly.

 

* * *

 

"Ugh, my ears are buzzing now," Tucker muttered. He shook his head to try and stop his ears ringing from Grif's huge shout before looking back at Junior.

Junior was growing. He wasn't the adorable little six-year-old who was always so happy to see him and always brought in crayon drawings depicting what it would be like three of them were a happy family. No, Junior had long since passed that. Eleven years old now. He was still kind of small and he still had the same weird features his other father had, such as the tinted hair and oddly sharp teeth. But he wasn't the same, and Tucker couldn't quite remember when Junior had made the transition from adorable kid to this older, quieter and less cheerful kid.

Crunchbite was there, too. He wasn't too interested in talking to Tucker, so he just waited near the door for Junior to finish. He hadn't changed a bit. Still the same as ever. Except that, of course, he didn't have to lug around a bag filled with crayon drawings and juice boxes anymore.

Tucker fiddled with his fingers. "Still can't speak English? Lame. How do you get by at school?"

He was answered with a shrug.

"What have they been teaching you if you haven't been learning how to speak English, anyway? You seriously don't have a class of 'English 101: Remedial Kickass?'"

Junior shook his head.

"Hm. But you understand it alright, don't you? Of course you do, you've understood what I was saying for years."

Junior made an agreeable noise.

"Hey, so..." Tucker glanced sideways at the guards before leaning forward. "You try some of the tricks I mentioned before?"

Junior nodded again.

"Did any of them work? Cons are difficult to pull off on children. When you're still a kid, anyway."

Junior nodded again, pulled something out of his pocket. A drawing. Not a crude crayon drawing. This one was in pencil, and while no masterpiece it was less basic than the stick fingers with scribbles for hair.

This one detailed a basic con that Tucker had told Junior about. Most of the pictures on it showed the various stages, so that Tucker could figure out which one it was out of the many he had passed on. The last one had a figure that Tucker assumed was Junior, holding money and with a smiley face drawn on.

Still childish pictures, even if a little more sophisticated. Tucker was pleased.

"Heh, way to go. I still say you'll beat me yet. Window high-five!"

They both touched their hands to the glass, not hitting it too hard just in case the glass decided to break. It was similar to what Tucker had done when Junior was younger, holding their hands together on either side of the glass. But they didn't do that so much any more. Junior was currently in that awkward 'big kid' stage where emotions were terrible.

"You gonna be back next month?"

Junior paused, then shrugged. That little gesture managed to throw Tucker completely off. Junior had missed visits sometimes, but he'd never shrugged when asked if he was showing up. He had always talked in a reassuring way about it.

Funny how one little shrug could make Tucker feel like he'd been punched.

 

* * *

 

"Wow. That was even louder than I expected," Sister said cheerily.

"Louder than... What did you fucking expect me to do?" Grif snapped. "Here I am, worrying about you and you never visiting... and on top of that... You've gotten yourself fucking pregnant?!"

"Whoa, cool your jets. It's not like I did anything that bad. I've gotten pregnant before. I can't even count the amount of abortions I've had on my fingers." Sister paused for a moment, tapping her fingers as she counted quietly under her breath. "Nope, can't count how many. What's the big deal about this?”

Grif mumbled incomprehensibly for a few moments, staring down at Sister's very pregnant belly. Now that his mind was getting past the 'holy crap, Sister is really pregnant' initial shock, he started to wonder why he was so surprised. Sister was right, it wasn't the first time.

"Yeah, well... I never expected you to actually fucking keep it."

"It's not an 'it,' Grif. It's a 'he.'"

"Hrm." Grif crossed his arms and scowled. "You probably don't even know who the father is."

"Sure I do. He, um... I think he was a taxi driver? I don't really know, I was a bit drunk at the time. Can't remember his name."

"Wonderful. So what? You're just gonna shove out this kid, and then what? You can't raise a kid on just the money you earn through being a waitress."

"I saved up. I got money from an old stripper job I used to-"

"You what?!"

"Oh, I never told you about that because I knew you'd get mad. That was ages ago, like... seven years ago? Made loads of money, they'd just lost their top stripper so there was, like, this power vacuum. I only did it for a few years. Anyway..." Sister flapped her hand airily. "No big deal. You're making too much of a fuss, Dex. That's why I didn't tell you to begin with. You're just assuming that I'm gonna fuck up."

"You always fuck up! You always make stupid decisions that end up with you passed out in a ditch or lying in hospital with..." Grif swallowed, then shook his head. "Point is, why shouldn't I believe this is any different? Why shouldn't I believe that you're going to screw up without me there to stop you?"

"I've managed the last nine years without you, haven't I?"

Grif opened his mouth to respond, and then found he had nothing to say.

 

* * *

 

Caboose was getting progressively more impatient.

"Fidgeting won't make time go faster," Donut told him.

"I want to see Sheila. She has not visited for a long time. A very long time. I thought she had forgotten about me. But she is here, and I want to see her. And it is taking a long time. And she is out there. I saw her when the door opened."

The door swung open, and Grif left the visitor's room.

"Grif, what the hell happened in there?" Simmons asked.

Grif didn't speak. He just walked past Simmons and headed down the corridor.

"Grif!"

"Hey, Simmons. You can go in, now," York said from inside the visitor's room. Simmons glanced between the door and where Grif had stormed off to, and then went through the door, with perhaps a trace of reluctance.

Caboose, oblivious to what had happened, had instead been trying to peer through the door. As it closed behind Simmons, Caboose frowned.

"She is talking to Mr. Spaniel."

"She? Oh, you mean Sheila. Wait, really?" Donut shuffled closer to the door. "Now I'm curious. He won't say anything beyond killing his wife."

"I do not like that. He and Sheila were... they... they were doing that thing that people who really, really like each other do. Tucker calls it a 'window high-five.' Only family and lovey people can do that."

"Oooh! So he and Sheila... But if he killed his wife... Maybe he killed his wife because she was pushy and wouldn't agree to a divorce? Or maybe he's a crazy wife killer?" Donut said in a hushed tone, just in case Lopez chose that moment to walk through the door.

"A crazy wife killer?" Caboose's eyes widened. "But if Sheila is window high-fiving Mr. Spaniel... Then that means he likes her in a wifey way and…"

"Or maybe his wife died in a completely unrelated way and he's innocent. Or maybe he just killed her for shits and giggles. Who knows," Donut concluded.

"He is a danger to Sheila!"

"What? But he's locked in here, how could he?"

"Cannot... cannot take chances. Cannot let him hurt Sheila. She is a precious flower," Caboose muttered under his breath.

“Precious flower? She's built like a tank. I bet she could lift you over her head.”

When Lopez walked through the door and found the other two inmates staring at him, one curiously and the other venomously, he didn't ask why. He just shook his head and muttered something insulting under his breath before leaving.

Caboose had gotten to his feet and made to go in the room, but York raised a hand. "Hold up a minute." Sheila was now peering down at a pager, looking slightly frustrated. York gestured for Caboose to stay where he was and walked over, leaning towards the glass. After Sheila and York exchanged a few words, Sheila ran out of the room. York returned.

"Sorry, Caboose. She got a page from the hospital, so she had to go. She said to apologise to you."

Caboose frowned, but didn't say anything in response. He just sat back down, deep in thought.

 

* * *

 

It was one of the rare times when Mama Julie came to visit. She didn't show up as much, and they were often quiet occasions, save for Donut's rambling. That day was no exception.

After a very long stretch of silence, Donut spoke.

"Uhm. So. ...Watch any good shows lately? Do they still show the same shows on TV? Probably not... uh…"

It hadn't been awkward at home, because usually they just lapsed into comfortable silence. Either Donut's other mother filled in the silence or they just watched shows together or sat around doing their own thing. That was fine. Mama Julie was just quiet.

But they saw each other so rarely now, and Donut felt like he had to say something, but he just couldn't find the words. There wasn't all that much to talk about. Prison didn't provide a lot of variety.

It seemed, however, that his mother was thinking the same thing.

“I should write down some topics next time, shouldn't I?”

“Oh, you don't have to. I know you don't like conversation.”

“Yes. But I want to talk.” She would have looked blank to people who didn't know her very well, but Donut recognised her expression as one of mild concern. “Are you doing alright, Franklin?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty good! Prison's not all that bad once you get used to it, long as there's no shit going on. And right now there isn't! Except that jerk who keeps stealing my laundry.”

“Good. ...Not 'good' to the laundry part, but… I'm glad you're okay.” Now the blank expression looked like 'struggling to say something.' An expression that didn't show up much. “You're… you know, a good kid. And I… am glad that, uh… you're specifically my kid, and that Liz found you at the orphanage and… and yes, all that lovey stuff.”

Donut blinked. Not to say that his mother was completely cold, but the most affection she had ever expressed through words was 'well done,' generally in regards to grades and such. She wasn't one for mushy words.

"Are you... have you been replaced with a clone? Are you dying?"

"Well, if I was trying to imitate myself... I wouldn't have said anything that mushy. And no, I'm not dying except in that way that all people are. I just... you know. Sometimes I worry that something bad will happen. And if it does, I want to make sure I said that to you.”

"Oh. Aww, that's sweet. I love you, too." Donut grinned, but after a moment leaned forward with his eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you're not an impostor, though?"

The expression on Mama Julie's face still looked 'bored' to others, but there was a tiny smile there. "If I was a clone, I probably wouldn't know it. As for an impostor, I'd be a bad one if I admitted to it."

"That's true. And it's fine about the whole... not enough 'I love you' stuff. I could tell. I'm awesome like that."

"I know.”

 

* * *

 

Church didn't mind the quiet, but it was a little odd. Dinner was usually noisy. At this point, he would normally be shouting at Tucker to shut up about whatever sexual conquests he had managed on the outside. Instead, Tucker was quiet. Just staring down at his food.

Tucker wasn't the only one acting strange. Grif was also staring down at his food. Weirder yet, he wasn't actually eating it. Just staring. Coming from Grif, that was downright freakish. Simmons kept glancing at Grif, looking mildly worried. Caboose looked like he was trying to glare a hole through Lopez's head, although Lopez, who was sitting at a nearby table, just looked mildly annoyed by the attempt. Donut seemed to be the only one not acting completely off.

Church shook his head before returning to his food. If people always acted this weird after having a visitor, it made him glad that he never had any.

 

* * *

 

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Grif had been fiddling around with one of his pruno bags, the one that held the moonshine. He didn't look up when he heard Simmons' voice. He knew what Simmons wanted to talk about and he wasn't in the mood for it.

"What do you mean, what's wrong with me?"

"Don't play stupid. You stormed off in the middle of Sister's visit. She said you left without saying good-bye or anything. And you've been acting weird since then."

"Yeah? What's your point?"

"Why?"

"Oh, did you somehow miss the fact that she's fucking pregnant? Are you that fucking dumb?"

Simmons crossed his arms. "You're acting too weird for that to be the only reason. I can understand being surprised, but... Come on. Out with it."

Grif still didn't look up. "Hey, you want to tell Church that if he still wants to buy any of this stuff that he better hurry?"

"You're avoiding the question."

"What question?"

"Grif!"

"Can't you take a fucking hint? I don't want to talk about it, alright?" Grif snapped. "You wouldn't get it anyway, you don't give a flying fuck about your family."

Grif immediately regretted shouting that once he saw the look on Simmons' face. It was a quick look, but that hurt expression was etched into Grif's brain. He should have known better. Simmons' family could be a touchy topic. Simmons quickly covered up the expression, although his ears had gone bright red. They only did that when he was embarrassed... or mad.

"I'll tell Church." Simmons' tone was frostier than before. "He's gonna try and bargain for a lower price."

"Yeah, I... I know." Grif fixed his gaze back on the pruno bag. "Tell him the price is more negotiable if he finds some soda. This shit goes much better with soda."

"Fine."

Once Simmons was out of sight, Grif put down the bag and rested his forehead in his hands.

 

* * *

 

Lopez didn't consider himself a weak person. If someone had told him that he would be going mad within his first couple of weeks of prison, then Lopez would have just made a snarky comment and moved on.

But now he felt differently. This prison was maddening. Lopez was sure the other prison hadn't been this bad. Maybe it was the perspective. The last prison sentence had only been six months. This was twenty years minimum and possibly forever. Yes, it was probably the perspective. Or the inmates who he suspected were all brain-damaged. Either way, Lopez preferred to avoid contact with anyone and just stay in his cell. Or venture out towards the library. Lopez wasn't much of a reader normally, but there were some good books on vehicles in there. It beat trying to talk to the others.

As Lopez pulled a book from the shelf, flicking through it to see if there was anything about motorcycles, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

"I want to talk to you. But don't turn around." Lopez made to turn anyway, but the man behind him put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "I said don't. It's best for the both of us if we keep our backs turned."

" _I'm not stupid enough to keep my back to you._ "

"Believe me, Spaniard. It's for your own good. I happen to be somewhat, erm, unpopular with the fools that live around your cell. Some of them wouldn't be happy to see us conversing. It'd be foolish to openly speak to me, so it's best if you keep your back turned."

Lopez could feel the hand on his shoulder twitching. Like staying still was an impossibility. Anyone twitching and shaking that much wouldn't have the co-ordination to beat him in a fight. And since the man had responded to the question, he at least understood Spanish. That put him an inch above the other idiots.

Lopez could listen. There was nothing better to do. Besides, if he was going to be stabbed, there would already be something sharp sticking into his back.

" _I want a name._ "

"You can call me O'Malley. Now, I have a proposition for you."

" _I've already gotten this talk from three other men. I am not going to sleep with you._ "

"Not that kind of proposition. Besides, you're too stoic and that just isn't entertaining. I'm in the market for a henchman."

" _I still refuse. And did you actually say henchman?_ "

"Yes. But don't refuse so quickly, my Spanish friend."

" _We're not friends._ "

"True. But do you really think that you can survive here? By yourself? You've already been beaten up once. If something serious happens... well, Doc isn't the most competent of medical personnel. I think I can count the amount of medical procedures he's good at on one hand. Maybe just a couple of fingers."

Lopez snorted, before returning to his book.

" _That is true. But I still don't care. I'm not worried. And if something happens, I'll live with it. I don't need help from any idiot in this place._ "

"I'm not an idiot, Spaniard. I may be twitchy and crazy, but I'm not stupid. And it's difficult to live with dying.”

" _I'm not impressed. And if you need me as a henchman, you can't be too well-protected._ "

"I'm working on it. But simply my presence will discourage certain, erm... potential enemies. I noticed the gorilla—the one you entered the infirmary with the other day—glaring at you. I don't know if you're aware, but that glare is a death sentence for most."

Lopez still wasn't impressed. " _And me being your 'henchman' would fix that, would it?_ "

"Yes. We have a history." O'Malley laughed quietly, then said, "At any rate, it's not just the muscle I require from you. The fact that you speak Spanish yet understand English is another bonus. You can stand right next to many of the fools in here and they will talk as if you can't understand them. Do you know how invaluable that is?"

" _For the last time. I refuse. I don't care for serving people of questionable sanity. Just a quirk of mine._ "

"How about I let you think on it? I'd hate to stab such potential."

" _No doesn't mean ask again. Idiot._ "

"Ooh. You're going to be tough to convince. Fine. Be as huffy as you like, spaniard. But keep in mind what I've said. Regardless of how little you care for your own safety, I'm sure you must have someone who cares about your well-being. You mentioned a wife. I assume you wouldn't want her to become a widow, now would you?" O'Malley purred.

Lopez frowned, even as he heard O'Malley leave. He turned around in time to see a brief glimpse of red hair before O'Malley was gone. Lopez continued trying to flick through his book, but he was having a little difficulty keeping his thoughts on motorcycles.

One of the last things Sheila had told him during her visit yesterday was to stay safe. What would she do if something happened to him?

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Tucker. You want some moonshine? It'll cost a lot, but it'll get us so wasted that we'll be in a coma for a year afterward. It'll be awesome," Church said, sticking his head into Tucker's cell. Tucker didn't reply right away. He was staring at the wall.

"Huh? Oh... Yeah, sure," he mumbled. Church frowned and walked into the cell, stood next to Tucker and started staring at the wall as well.

The wall was absolutely covered in pictures. Many of them consisting of crayon scribbles, but eventually they moved onto regular pencils. The contents started off as just random objects, such as food or animals, then moved onto pictures of people. By the end, the pictures looked more organized. But there were fewer of them, and they all seemed to detail cons.

Church glanced sideways at Tucker. Tucker's eyes looked unusually shiny.

"You, er... You alright?" Church asked unsteadily. He was never good at trying to shown concern. He'd lost that ability once he no longer had a little brother to care for. Tucker apparently agreed.

"Dude, being concerned doesn't suit you. Stick to being a douchebag."

"Fine. And you can stick to being a hoebag."

"Damn right." Tucker paused, then laughed. "Man. I just realised I miss my kid more than the ladies. See, if you'd told me I would care more for a kid than for boobs and vajay, say, twelve years ago? I would have thought you'd swapped brains with Caboose."

Church snorted. Then he said, "So, you just miss your kid? That's all that's wrong?"

"Ehhh, sort of." Tucker looked down, then looked back at the wall. "I dunno. I just feel like... like I'm missing too much. Every time he visits, it just feels like... the gap between us is getting wider. Few years back, he always seemed happy to see me... He was always bringing in crayon drawings. Pictures of me and him and Crunchbite.

"Now, it's just pictures of cons. Cons I taught him. He doesn't talk to me much, maybe because I don't understand him anyway... I just don't know what to do, man. I'm not a father for him. I'm just a guy who sits behind glass and teaches him how to cheat money out of people.

"I can't do anything that dads are supposed to do. Hell, I don't even fucking know what dads are supposed to do. Not like I ever had one. And even if I did, what am I supposed to do? Play baseball through glass with him? How... How can I?"

The words were pouring out now, coming out faster and more jumbled than before.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was meant to help take care of him. I was meant to take care of him and I never... never even saw his first steps. I haven't held him for ten years, it's been so long he wouldn't even remember it. And he's growing up too fast and even now I can't do anything..." Tucker couldn't stop himself. The tears finally started leaking out of his eyes. "I can't help him with his homework or be there to watch any games he plays or teach him how to charm the girls once he's old enough. He'll grow up without me and when I finally get out it'll be too late... He... He won't be my kid anymore. It'll be too late for... for..." Tucker covered his eyes, trying to stop himself from crying. But the tears just slipped through his fingers.

The most Church could do was awkwardly put a hand on Tucker's shoulder and stay quiet. He didn't know what else he could do. He'd never seen Tucker cry before. Not like this. So he just stood there. Waiting for Tucker to calm down.

It took a long time. But eventually Tucker wiped his eyes, trying to rub away the wet streaks and the redness and any other evidence that he'd been so weak as to cry, because weakness was just too dangerous.

"God... I must look pathetic," he muttered under his breath.

"Eh. Could be worse," Church said feebly. "At least it's not like Donut getting teary from reading one of those romance books in the library. You could be wimpier."

"True... True..." Tucker shook his head. "Ugh. Get it together," he muttered, more to himself than Church. "Alright. I... I think I've got it."

"Hm. Well... Good." Church immediately removed his hand, and jumped right back to his habit of insulting Tucker. "Don't need you turning into a river again, douchebag."

"Asshole." Tucker was smiling, though. "Uh... Thanks for not insulting me while I was... Yeah."

"I mean, y'know. Whatever. Not fun to insult people while they're crying," Church muttered.

"Eh, whatever. That's over now. Let's go get some alcohol off Grif. I really feel like getting wasted right now.”

 

* * *

 

"I don't get it. What's the big deal about this stuff?" Donut asked.

"Dude. It's moonshine. It's fucking. White. Lightning. It's the holy grail of prison liquor. That's what the deal is." Grif was holding the bag of pruno to his eyes, trying to figure out how many tumblers worth there was. Donut was sitting in the corner of the room, watching.

"How does it compare to outside alcohol? How does it compare to, say... appletinis?"

"Dunno. I don't drink girly drinks."

"It's not girly…"

"Sure." Grif tilted the bag, then put it down again. "Urgh... There's not gonna be that much if this is split up into five. Me, Simmons, Church, Tucker... Are you gonna be buying any?"

"I guess. Only to figure out what the big deal is, though."

"Then yeah, divided by five. The only other guys around, well... Lopez just keeps hiding in his cell, and I'm not dumb enough to see if Caboose gets any crazier while drunk."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea. He's been talking to his pigeon again. Ominously." Donut frowned and crossed his arms. "Maybe giving him that was a bad idea…"

"Eh. If you hadn't, then the whole block would still smell like dead pigeon. Anyhow, I got regular pruno as a back-up, so there's enough to either make us pass out or just kill us all." Grif grinned. "It'll be awesome."

Donut flopped onto Grif's cot. "Alright, so how much is this gonna cost? I heard Church bitching about the price."

"Well, for you... how does ten a tumbler sound? Trust me, that's a good deal. Like, half of what Church paid."

"Okay. Why's it so cheap? Is it poisonous?"

"Could be. It's home-made alcohol, there's always a chance it's poisonous. But no higher a chance than normal. You're just getting a better price than Church because I can actually stand you. You know, sort of."

"Awwww, Grif!" Donut cooed. "That's sweet."

"Oh god, please don't cry."

"I'm not... Can't a guy say something is sweet without being made fun of?"

"No. Never.”

 

* * *

 

"Never have I ever tried a deep-fried Snickers bar."

"You mean there's a food you haven't tried?"

"I was gonna! Sounds delicious. But they don't shit that shit to prison. Don't judge me, asshole."

Donut took back whatever negative things he'd said about that moonshine. It was worth the high price. He felt tingly and warm and half-blind. It was awesome.

The drinking had eventually gone from just regular drinking to games. Opportunities for drinking games were few, since people often drank by themselves or in smaller groups. With six inmates crammed into a cell, what better time?

"Alright. Never have I never... uh. Hold on, lemme... lemme think of something." Donut had to pause as the room swayed alarmingly. "Never have I never really never really really never really never never—ow! Caboose!"

"You were stuck in a loop. When the TV did that, it always started working again if I hit it," Caboose said stubbornly. He was clinging onto a cup as well, but his was filled with orange juice. As such, he was the only person crammed into Grif's cell who wasn't at least tipsy.

"I'm not a television! I don't think so, anyhow. I think someone would have told me," Donut mumbled. "What was I saying? Oh, right. Trying to think of something. Uh... Oh. Never have I ever... ever slept with a girl?" It was all that came to mind when Donut tried to think of things he hadn't done that the other guys probably had. Alcohol stunted his imagination.

"Big fucking surprise," Church muttered, before taking a long sip. Tucker grinned and did the same. Caboose had to pause for a few moments, nose scrunched up as he thought about it, before nodding and drinking his orange juice.

Grif's response to Donut's answer was to turn and punch Simmons in the shoulder.

"Ow! The fuck was that for?" Simmons snapped.

"Uh..." Grif trailed off for a moment. "I had a reason. I just don't remember it. But it was definitely... there."

"Yeah. Sure. You big a-hole," Simmons muttered under his breath.

"Okay, okay. Your turn, Caboose."

"Uh... I never... hugged a dragon?"

"Nuh-uh, you can't say that. Because dragons don't exist."

"They don't?" Caboose looked upset at that, so Donut backtracked.

"Uh. Well. They do, it's just... you wouldn't have hugged one, since they're really hard to keep in zoos. Because they fly over the cages and everything. But they exist. They definitely exist," Donut told him. "But you still have to choose a different question."

"Why are we even playing drinking games? Can't we just drink the damn stuff?" Grif muttered.

"Don't be a killjoy, man..." Tucker said. He was in a similar half-blind state as Donut, although he'd drunk more since the game started.

"Your face is a killjoy."

"Wow. Great comeback," Simmons muttered.

"Shut up."

"So, anyway... you have to choose something that's possible. Usually it's something awkward or gross, like kissing a girl or working in a strip club."

"But I have done both those things."

"Or going down on a—wait, what?”

"It was shiny and sequiny and no-one ever wore clothes." Caboose shivered. "It was icky. And I had to stand there every day and punch anyone who was annoying."

"...Ohhhh. You were a bouncer?"

"Yes, that is the thing. So I cannot say that. What was the third thing?"

"Uh. I don't remember." Donut squinted at the clear, slightly oily liquid in his cup. Now he couldn't stop thinking of Caboose in a sequin-covered stripper outfit. He couldn't decide if it was a good visual or a disturbing one. "Urgh. I'm out of questions. Not like you guys are all that original, either. I mean all of Tucker's questions are just weird sex things, Church's are all about crimes, and really, we already know we've all murdered people."

"I did not!"

"'Course you didn't, Caboose. Guess if we were more specific and said, like, had we ever killed a family member or something…"

"Why don't we just skip Caboose?" Church said loudly. "He can't get drunk off orange juice, anyway."

Donut half-expected Caboose to protest at that, since the only reason he was drinking orange juice with them was that he wanted to play whatever games they were playing. But Caboose looked troubled about something. Probably wondering whether dragons really existed.

"Sure, whatever. Tucker?"

"Can't think of nothing. I already asked the thing about the stinkbug position. Also I've done a lotta shit. Wait, I've never kissed a guy. Yeah, that."

"Oh, come on, you've slept your way around the prison more than anyone in this room," Simmons grumbled.

"I'm just keeping it real. Besides, no kissing. It's only gay if you kiss or if the balls touch. So never kissed a dude. Now drink, motherfuckers." That caused everyone but Church to take a drink. Tucker snorted. "Gaaaay."

"Shut up."

Church's earlier questions had mostly consisted of criminal stuff. He'd been trying to dig up more blackmail material. It was the only reason he had agreed to play the stupid game. But he'd run out of crime-related things to ask (and none had gotten any real results anyway.) While he tried to think of something else, he glanced out of the cell to make sure a guard wasn't coming. That made him think of Tex. And that led him on to marriage.

"Uh. Never have I ever been married?"

Tucker groaned before taking a long drink.

"You're not serious," Church muttered. He wasn't the only one who was staring at Tucker with disbelief.

"God, I wish I wasn't. It was gross. The second time, especially," Tucker complained. "That chick was, like, eighty. Conning ain't pretty."

"Dear god."

"Someone hurry up and say something else. I really need to get drunk now. Thanks for bringing that up, Church. Seriously, I love remembering married old lady boobs. Only... you know, not.”

Now all Church could think about was Tucker in a tuxedo and how he'd probably look damn good in it.

"Hell yeah I would," Tucker said.

Apparently Church had voiced the sentiment out loud. Goddammit. At least everyone else was too drunk to notice whatever stupid stuff came out of his mouth. Except Caboose, but he probably didn't understand half of what was said, anyway.

They gave up on the drinking game soon after. Partly because they couldn't think of any more questions and partly because they were all so shitfaced that most of them could barely sit up without falling over. Indeed, by that point Tucker was curled up on the floor asleep and Donut was lying on his back, giggling like an idiot. But Church was absolutely fine. The room was just being a douchebag and spinning a bit.

Grif and Simmons had resumed arguing. It wasn't their usual light bickering, however. It was actually angry. And it had started because Grif had remembered why he punched Simmons earlier.

"I remember! It was because I never got you for kissing Sister that one time."

"It was once and you totally did get me back. You punched in the face, remember?”

“No, I only tried to punch you, I never made real contact!”

”Besides, I was... I was that thing that you are when you're not the other thing," Simmons insisted. "Like now. And when I'm... that thing that I can't remember the word for... then I get handsy."

"Last I checked, you don't kiss using your hands! Or have I missed something?"

They were yelling pretty loudly. Caboose, meanwhile, had edged closer to the cell door.

"Uh, guys..." he started quietly.

"And besides, you went way further than kissing!”

“We didn't fuck! I told you, you walked in before that happened! Oh my god, why are you even bringing this up? This was... was... I forget how long ago! Ages!"

"Guys?"

"I'm bringing it up because... Well, I fucking forget! I'm just fucking pissed off about it! I don't even remember what we were fighting about, I just want to punch you in the face!" Grif shouted.

"Just try it!" Simmons snarled.

Grif took him up on the offer, and dived at Simmons. His attempt to punch Simmons failed, as he missed and just smashed his hand against the wall. As Simmons grabbed Grif, trying to get him in a headlock but failing due to lack of muscle and co-ordination, Church nudged Tucker with his foot.

"Tucker, we gotta go! We gotta get out before the guards come to check the fighting," Church muttered. "We gotta be careful, though. Room is still spinning. Motherfucker."

Tucker's response was to groan, wave his hand a little and go back to sleep.

"It is too late for that, Church," Caboose said. He was still pointing outside the cell. "The sarge man and Mrs. McCrabby are walking this way. I think they heard the noise.”

"Fuck, why didn't you say something?"

Church scrambled back and tried to look less dizzy and drunk. However one did that. Not that it mattered much. Write-ups weren't much of a problem in his case, since he had no chance of leaving prison anyway.

Sarge strode into the cell, Tex right behind him. Tex's response to Grif's and Simmons' fight was, well, more violence. A punch to the face and a kick to the crotch later and the fight came to a stop.

“Oh, jeez, the front of my face!” Simmons yelled, holding his face while Grif just let out a pained whine and curled up, clutching his junk.

"Dammit, Tex. I wanted in on the fighting. I'm getting rusty. And Grif, ya dirtbag! You're corrupting the other Reds! And fraternizing with the enemy!" Sarge roared. "Should have you strung up for the night!"

"Fuck you," Grif wheezed out.

"What was that?"

"Fuck you, sir!"

"Better! Now, all of you! Off to SHU, let's move it." Sarge looked downwards at Tucker and Donut, who hadn't budged from the floor. "Someone might have to carry Scarface and Princess Peach here.”


	3. Chapter Three: Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The main six spend some time in SHU, during which a number of conversations occur. Doc decides to try and put his foot down. And Lopez has to make a decision about where his allegiance lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be half of a super long chapter, but I got sleepy reading it over and decided I should probably split it.

"I think I'm dying."

"You're not dying, shut up."

Donut sat up very, very slowly. The memories of what had happened the night before were hazy. He sure didn't remember how he'd gotten locked in a shoe cell. Unlike regular isolation time, however, he was not actually alone. Church was sitting on the other cot. He looked just as hungover as Donut felt. Maybe a bit less. He didn't quite look like there was a metaphorical axe through his head, at least.

"What happened? How'd we get here?" Donut groaned, lying back down again as his vision swarm alarmingly. "Oh god... I'm never drinking again."

Church snorted. "You say that now. But if you get the chance, you'll go right back. Most people do. What else are we supposed to do? Card games and books only go so far and we haven't had a television for thirteen years since the crappy one this prison had got broken in a riot."

"We had a television? Aw. So... what did happen?"

"Guards came. After Grif and Simmons had their stupid fistfight. I think. The room was kinda spinning at the time, so I don't really remember. All I know is there wasn't enough cells for all of us so they dumped two of us in each."

"Oh. I kinda remember that."

"Yeah, that. Your food's on the floor, by the way. North came by and left it there a while ago."

Donut took a few minutes to gather the will to actually get off his cot. "Urgh. Water..." After drinking half of his portion of water, Donut added, "So, Grif and Simmons... they were fighting? Like, actually angry fighting?"

"Yeah. Fucking weird for them, but if it doesn't lead to anything useful to me I don't really give a shit. Not until the annoying screaming starts again. And then they're gonna bitch and whine and eventually have noisy, annoying make-up sex. It's gonna be shit."

There was a long stretch of silence. Then Donut asked, "They're gonna what now?"

 

* * *

 

Grif felt like shit for at least three different reasons.

Foremost was the fact that even he could only drink so much moonshine without wanting to kill himself the next day. The pain was annoying, though not the same sort of hangover that the others probably had, because Grif was awesome like that.

Second was the fact that he was locked in a small, windowless cell with Tucker, of all people. One of the people that Grif hated most in this prison, primarily for his constant lewd remarks towards Sister and the fact that he was just such a sly-talking bastard who knew how to nudge people into talking just that little bit too much. Not that it was much of a problem at the moment, seeing as Tucker wasn't awake yet. He'd probably drunk the most out of all of them during the 'never have I ever' game, given that he'd done practically everything that anyone mentioned.

The third reason was guilt. Guilt and anger, but mostly guilt. That was probably the main thing annoying him.

Grif stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He could hear talking among some of the other  shoe cells. He could hear Donut and Church, although he couldn't tell what they were talking about. He couldn't hear Simmons at all. Probably too hungover to talk. Wuss.

Grif slid off the cot, edged towards the food slot. Looked through it, trying to see any sign of where Simmons was. Nothing.

"Simmons? You there?"

Silence.

"Simmons? ...Kissass?"

Silence.

"Don't be a jerk, speak up."

There was a reply to this, although it wasn't Simmons' voice.

"Simon does not want to talk. He is grumpy," he heard Caboose say. "Also, he looks like a panda."

"A panda?"

"Yes. He has two black eyes. So he looks like a panda."

Grif shifted nervously. He had probably caused at least one of those black eyes. Although his attempt to punch Simmons in the face had been unsuccessful, he had caught him in the eye with his elbow at one point.

"Can you get him to talk?"

"I do not think that is a good idea. He already got angry at me for talking too much. And I was not even talking to him." Grif heard a huffy sigh. "It is not nice to interrupt conversations. Especially when they are important."

"Important? You were talking to your fucking pigeon!" he heard Simmons shout. His voice was hoarse.

"It was very important," Caboose insisted. "And it was rude to interrupt."

"Simmons! Come on, get your ass up. I wanna talk to you."

Silence.

"Don't be a wuss! Goddammit, Simmons, come on."

"He is blocking his ears," Caboose said.

"Fucking jerk. Get him to unblock them!”

"No. He will get mad again." Caboose lowered his voice to a low whisper. "People being mad is not good. Because then they shout at other people, and then people get mad and accidentally make their cats fall over when trying to get a hug from something."

"Wait, what?"

At that moment, there was a wail from one of the other cells. A wail that sounded a lot like Donut.

" Curry Puff ! Are you hurt?" Grif could see Caboose's eyes peering through the food slot a couple of cells away.

"Oh, he's fine. He's just upset because his 'gaydar' is broken. Or something fucking ridiculous like that," he heard Church say.

"How did I not know they were together?! Oh my god, it's so obvious now," Donut wailed. " I'm supposed to know these things!"

Grif slapped his forehead and immediately regretted it, having forgotten about his post-moonshine headache.

"Maybe you can go see a mechanic. He could fix your gaydar," Caboose said cheerfully.

Grif decided that Simmons had the right idea in blocking his ears. It was far too early in the morning for this crap.

 

* * *

 

Doc stared at his hanging kitty poster. Arms crossed, eyes slightly narrowed. This poster was doing a lot less than simply failing to cheer him up. It was actually reminding him of O'Malley now. O'Malley hadn't visited in a few days. Not since Lopez had visited the infirmary. But Doc could always sort of feel him there. Just a feeling that made him constantly check the door so that O'Malley wouldn't get the jump on him.

Doc didn't know what to do. Everything that he had brought in to distract him from O'Malley was now actively reminding him of him. Like the spearmint mouthwash. Now even the faintest smell or taste of anything minty reminded him of the very taste that he'd been using the mouthwash to try and forget about.

It was making Doc angry. For the first time since... since... since possibly forever... Doc was actually angry. Maybe because the few days that O'Malley had left him alone for had given him just enough of a reprieve to get his head straight.

_I shouldn't have to do this. A relationship should be built on love and trust and... It shouldn't be like this. Oh god, what's he done to me, I shouldn't even be calling this a relationship! It's not! It's terrifying! I've... Well, I've had it. When he comes through that door…_

Doc blanked for several seconds, before his thoughts continued.

_I'm going to give him a good, stern talking-to._

Of course, such thoughts were easy to think when O'Malley wasn't there. But when O'Malley finally did come slinking through that door, same grin as ever fixed on his face... it was a lot harder to keep that resolve.

"Uhm... Uh..." Doc choked out.

"Speechless? Are you just so overcome with emotion that I decided to show up?" O'Malley pushed the door shut with his foot.

_Go on, tell him. Tell him you're sick of his sh—unpleasant behavior._

"I, uh..." Doc swallowed nervously. He was trying to think of the right words, but it was difficult. O'Malley just made thinking so much more difficult. All he could force out was, "I don't think I like what you're doing." Even that was shaky.

"What I'm doing? I think you need to be more specific," O'Malley said, stepping towards him. Doc mirrored O'Malley's footsteps, taking a step back for every step O'Malley took forwards.

"You know... the... mean things," Doc said weakly.

"More specific, Doc. Is there a thing that I do that isn't cruel in some way?"

"Well..." Doc shook his head. "No... there isn't. That's what I don't like..." Doc took another step backwards and bumped into the wall. O'Malley grinned and placed his hands on either side of Doc, planted firmly on the wall so that Doc couldn't simply move to the side.

"Really. ...Are you actually protesting to my evil... oh, sorry, you probably prefer 'morally questionable,' don't you?"

"I do prefer that... Evil is a strong word," Doc muttered.

"Of course. But that wasn't the point of our conversation, was it?" O'Malley leaned in, his grin just inches from Doc's face. "If you have something to say about my 'morally questionable' activities, then say it. Or you can just go back to keeping it all bottled up and I'll just have my usual fun. I'm giving you a choice, Doc. Isn't that nice of me?"

Doc tried pressing himself further back into the wall. It didn't work. It never did.

"I..." Doc closed his eyes, trying to think. He'd wanted to protest. He couldn't remember the words. His eyes shot open again when O'Malley reached out to grasp his chin.

"Go on. You know I love to hear your feeble little protests. Honestly, they're even better than the sex. Not that I object to that, either."  He smiled even wider before dipping his head down and nibbling at Doc's neck. "So speak up, or I might decide to go with the lesser option. And you never enjoy that, do you?"

Doc tried to squirm away, but O'Malley's grip was too strong to break with simple squirming. Despite the very uncomfortable things that O'Malley was doing to his neck, and the hand that was tangled in Doc's hair, keeping his head yanked back... Doc managed to choke out one thing.

"You're... You're a horrible person."

"Horrible?" O'Malley paused, then lifted his head up. "Is that it?"

"No. It's... It's not." Doc took a deep breath. His insides were shrivelling up with fear. "You're much worse than that! You are just... I thought, ages ago, that you might have something redeemable about you. I mean, no-one could be evil through and through, right?

"But I just can't believe that any more. Not after all you've done... I just can't believe you have any good left in you. I always thought the idea that someone who was completely... completely evil... could even exist... I thought the idea was crazy. But you're living proof that... it's not that crazy after all, and…"

O'Malley covered Doc's mouth, eyes narrowed. "Ah, so yes, you are calling me evil. But honestly, isn't that a bit hypocritical of you?"

Doc shook his head. Even though O'Malley had quickly lifted his hand from his mouth, he still didn't speak. He wasn't quite sure what O'Malley meant. Doc wasn't being hypocritical. There was no similarities between him and O'Malley at all.

"You call me evil. Or 'morally questionable.' Either way. And I won't deny that it's very true," O'Malley said quietly. "But have you looked at yourself lately?"

"Me? I'm a doctor! I help people!"

"Do you? How many people have died thanks to your care?" O'Malley grinned. "Must be getting high by now. I'm surprised you're still allowed to work here, especially given your lack of an actual degree. So many deaths, so many mutilations. I particularly admired the job on Miller's hands. Sure, you might not have created the original injury. But that job you did, trying to 'fix' them... Excellent. I'm sure he's still feeling that. Won't be able to pick up anything with those fingers ever again, thanks to your treatment. Really. I'm impressed. Proud, even."

Doc was going to say something, but he couldn't remember what.

"You really think you're that different from me? I might try and brainwash people on occasion. Or at least manipulate them into doing what I say. You think that's so different from what you do with those little pills?" O'Malley jerked his head in the direction of where Doc kept the many pills. "You say you gave them to me because I needed them? We both know that isn't true. I never needed any pills. You just forced them down my throat because you were scared of me when I was off them."

The expression on O'Malley's face wasn't happy anymore. His eyes had narrowed, his mouth was twisted into a horrible scowl. He shoved a hand in front of Doc's face. As always, the fingers were noticeably shaking.

"This is your fault. My hands used to be steady. My hands were where all my skill was contained! Now I'm barely able to write, thanks to you! You ruined my hands! You ruined my ability to even stand still! I can barely make it to the cafeteria without getting distracted! All because you were so terrified you tried to brainwash me with stupid pieces of candy-like medicine. And how many other inmates have you damaged with your horrible grasp on that medicine?"

"No, I... I..." Doc tried to form a defence. But he couldn't.

"You would do more good working at a coffee shop than trying to help people here. The only reason you even try being a doctor is because it makes you feel like you matter. Like you're important. Like you're doing something good. But you're not. You're doing much worse than you would if you never tried."

The grin had reappeared.

"Really, Doc. Even though you don't wear the jumpsuit, you're the worst criminal in this prison."

Doc couldn't reply to that. Couldn't even come up with a defence against it.

Every word O'Malley had just said had been true.

 

* * *

 

"Noooooo…"

Church groaned. "Can't you angst quietly? You're still surrounded by hungover inmates who could easily kick your ass."

Donut lifted his head slightly from his fetal position on the cot. "But I'm in distress."

"Oh, cry me a river. Actually, I take that back. Then you'll just cry for longer and it'll be much more annoying." Church massaged his forehead. "Why did I have to get stuck with you, of all people…"

"Hey, I'm not thrilled to be locked up with you either. I mean, I can't even sleep off the hangover in here. The cots are too lumpy. I bet that's the real punishment. When do we get let out of here?"

"Who knows. We were just drunk, so they'll probably let us out within the day. Since Grif and Simmons were fighting, they'll be stuck in here for longer."

"But you need to drink to live," Caboose said, still peering through his food slot. "Or you shrink and die. Like apricots."

"Not that kind of drink, dumbass. I mean the freaking alcohol."

"I did not drink any of that."

"Will you just go back to talking to your fucking pigeon?"

Donut heard shuffling, and assumed that Caboose had returned to pacing his cell, talking to his pigeon about who knows what. Donut sighed, then curled up a little tighter.

In retrospect, Grif and Simmons had been so very obvious. He'd just somehow missed it. Had he missed more than that? He hadn't gotten a single ping so far. Well, except for that one moment in the infirmary with Church, but it wasn't like Church was particularly subtle.

Donut uncurled a little, rolled over to face Church. "Hey, Church. Chuuuurch."

"Okay, if you're going to talk to me, then I'd rather you go back to crying."

"But now I'm in the mood for talking!" All anguish over his gaydar gone for the moment, Donut grinned at Church. "Hey, so you and Tucker are, like... tight, right? You know." Donut crossed his fingers. "Tiiiight."

"Are you high?"

"No. I'm hungover, but the best way to fix that is just to keep talking.”

"...What."

"Anyway. Tight. You and Tucker."

"Okay, first off... Don't go yelling that out loud, Dye-Job. Because it's fucking bullshit. And you're an idiot. And shut up." Church clasped his deflated pillow against his ears. Donut pouted and started rocking back and forth.

"Aw. You sure?" Donut rested his chin on his hands. "Why not?"

"Shut it before I shut it for you, alright?" Church drew a finger across his throat. "Seriously."

"But I'm booooored!"

"Yeah, well... if I cut your throat you won't be bored, will you?"

"You said you don't kill people any more."

"Fuck, right." Church scowled. "Fucking law against homicide. Things would be a lot more easy if we could just kill the people causing our problems. Worked for the cavemen."

Donut frowned, looked down at his hands. He could still remember how the blood felt on them, even years later. The stickiness and the heavy, coppery smell. And the terror because no matter how much Donut stabbed, his roommate just kept... coming at him…

"Was killing people always easy for you?"

Church didn't answer right away. He just kind of stared at the wall. And it might have just been the hangover, but he looked very old for a moment. Then he laughed. A short, bitter laugh.

"It always felt pretty damn easy. But I guess that's just me being a fucked-up guy.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose alternated between pacing the cell until Simmons got angry at him, and trying to peer through the food slot. He didn't like rooming with Simmons. Simmons was too shouty. If he'd been locked up with Church or Donut it would have been good. But he wasn't. Which was sad.

Could have been worse. Could have been locked up with Tucker. Caboose was glad he was not Grif at the moment.

Caboose clung to Margretta tightly, petting the soft, plushy fuzz. He had tried asking it for advice. Margretta didn't answer out loud. But Caboose liked to believe it was talking back.

"What do I do?"

The pigeon said nothing, but Caboose frowned and tilted his head.

"I know she said that. But she might get hurt."

More silence, but this time the silence was received with a nod.

"Yes, that is true. And Mr. Spaniel is... he is a danger to Sheila. I just…"

Caboose stared at the pigeon expectantly for answers.

"Yes, you are right. But I do not know... What if Sheila hates me? If I do that, she might... But she might get hurt. I do not know what to do…"

Silence. Caboose winced and held the pigeon a little bit away from him.

"You do not have to shout." Caboose nodded. "Okay. Once they let me out... I cannot do that when locked inside a tiny room."

"Caboose, shut up already!" Simmons groaned.

"I said stop interrupting our conversations," Caboose muttered.

"Talking to a toy doesn't count as a conversation. That's just insanity."

Caboose pouted and covered the sides of the pigeon's head. "You will hurt her feelings if you say things like that."

"Whoop-de-fucking-doo.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker's awakening was signaled by a lot of swearing.

"Fuckberries, my fucking head…"

Grif sighed and tucked his hands behind his head, still staring up at the ceiling. "Yeah, you drank too much. You owe me forty bucks, by the way."

"Right, right. But seriously, you could have waited to tell me. Not like I can do anything about it at the moment." Tucker groaned, and Grif heard him shifting on the cot. "Wait a second, we don't share a cell. Uh. Did we get caught drinking? I don't remember, I think I passed out."

"Yeah, we... we did."

"Aw, fuck! That's gonna get a write-up." Tucker flopped back onto his cot in a somewhat melodramatic way. "Damn, and I was going so well."

"No-one cares. Don't hear me bitching about getting written up for punching Simmons."

"You get a write-up every couple of months, big deal. Seriously, are you trying to stay locked up?" Tucker snapped his fingers, then winced. "Ow. But that reminds me. Tell Sis I said congratulations about the kid. Even if I'm sad that she's probably off the market now."

"Shut the fuck up about Sister!" Grif snarled. "Or I'll punch you out next!"

"Whooooa. Hey, don't break any of my bones again. That hurt. And it was bad enough when we actually had a decent doctor." Tucker raised his arms defensively. "Easy. As much as I might want to fuck her, it's not like I can do that through a glass screen. Not unless we were really, really inventive."

"I'm gonna have to kill you now, you realise?"

"Eh. It was worth it. Man, you're edgy."

"What? How would you feel like if I said I wanted to fuck your mum?"

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Well, she's kinda dead. So I'd say you have some serious issues."

"Okay, bad example.”

"Hell yeah it was."

"Also, I kinda ate your breakfast."

"Aw, come on!"

"In my defence, I was hungry and I hate you."

"You suck." Tucker stretched out on the cot, then said, "Seriously, you're on edge. Con artists can read people pretty fucking well. We have to."

"Look, even if I felt like explaining it to you... which, what with the seething hatred and all, I don't... You wouldn't get it anyway, so just shut up."

"Dude, don't you know who you're talking to? I mean, I get it. Sister is growing up and doesn't need you any more. And it's making you sad and pathetic and all that."

There was a stretch of silence before Grif muttered, "Fuck."

"Hah, got you."

"You didn't get me! Just... shut up."

"I'm not making fun of you or anything. I mean, normally I totally would. But since the same thing is happening with me and Junior, I'd end up sort of insulting myself at the same time. But seriously... You want my advice?"

"No. You lie, like, eighty percent of the time."

"Do not. At best I lie, like, a third of the time. People believe you more if you tell the truth as much as possible. Seriously, man. You'd be a shitty con."

"Yeah. Too much work, anyway. You're probably charging for advice, aren't you?"

"Well, I want your lunch. But that's just because you ate my breakfast. Really, I just don't want to have to put up with you getting pissy at everything. And also, family problems suck. So, just gonna say this. Throwing tantrums and running off from the visits ain't gonna do shit. If you've got family that actually cares for you, you better fucking hang on. Even if they don't actually need you." Tucker waved his hand vaguely. "Whether it's outside the prison..." Tucker then pointed in the direction of Simmons' cell. "Or inside it. You get me?"

Grif crossed his arms and groaned. "Dammit. Why'd you have to go and say that? That hit way too close."

Tucker grinned. "Told you. I'm the word master. You owe me your lunch."

"Fuck that.”

 

* * *

 

The door swung open sometime after lunch. Donut, who was still attempting the near-impossible task of getting comfortable on the lumpy shoe cots, looked up to see that York had been the one to unlock the door.

"Out you get. Come on."

"We can leave?"

"Yeah. We need more cells free, anyway. And it was just drinking, nothing serious. So, yeah. Out." York walked to the right to unlock Grif and Tucker's cell as Donut climbed to his feet and Church did the same.

"Urgh. Thank god. I was going mad," Church muttered as York fiddled with the locks. Donut saw that he wasn't actually using keys. He was lockpicking. York looked up briefly to see Donut watching.

"What? Practice," he muttered. After a few more seconds, the door slid open. "Tucker, you're out. Grif, you gotta stay there."

"Hey, hey, wait," Donut heard Grif say. He didn't hear anything else as Tucker left the cell, looking rather cheerful. York stuck his head into Grif's cell, and Donut could hear them talking about something, but he couldn't distinguish the words.

"Freedom!" Tucker yelled, before punching Church in the shoulder happily.

"Ow, fuck!"

"Oh, don't be a wuss."

York backed away from Grif's cell, muttering something about how he was too soft. He didn't lock Grif's door, and Grif followed York out. After a few moments of fiddling with the locks, Simmons' and Caboose's cell was open. "Caboose, out."

"Yay." Caboose shuffled out of the cell, clinging onto his pigeon. York didn't close the door. Instead, he gestured quickly inside the cell. Grif sidled past him into Simmons' cell, at the same time discreetly sliding something into York's hand. Likely a bribe of some sort. York locked the door behind him.

"Alright, into the yard. Or go to your cells, either way. Move along."

"No problem." Donut stretched his arms above his head. "Oh man... I'm tired. Gonna go take a nap."

"Take a nap? You just spent the entire day trying to sleep," Church muttered, as the four of them left the shoe, returning to the main part of the prison. "Tucker, we got any blackmail information worth, say, sixty bucks or a shitload of commissary stamps? Need to pay Grif back for the alcohol."

"Sure, buncha stuff. We'll have to go to a few people, but totally doable."

"Caboose, come on. If they get violent about it, we need you there as a meat shield."

"Oh. Okay. I have something to do, though," Caboose muttered.

"Well, do it afterwards."

"Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Grif perched on the empty cot, gazing at Simmons. Simmons was lying on his cot and stubbornly staring in the opposite direction. The silence was so thick and awkward that you'd need a knife to slice through it.

"Uh. So," Grif started. "Uhm. Yeah. Things."

"Fucking eloquent," Simmons muttered.

"Shut up. Ugh, I mean..." Grif sighed, scratched the back of his head. "I hate this part."

Simmons crossed his arms, continued staring at the wall. Didn't say a word to decrease Grif's discomfort. Well, he probably deserved that…

Grif tried to think of something to say.

"You really do look like a panda."

Grif  decided that he was an idiot.

"Grif, you're an idiot," Simmons told him, reaching up to cover his bruised eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

It got quiet again, to the point that Grif just wanted to scream as loud as possible just to stop the awkward, angry silence, but he couldn't think of anything to say that would actually help. Instead, he just approached Simmons. Simmons didn't uncover his eyes, but he did turn his head a little at the sound of Grif moving closer. And when Grif took a hold of his arm, rested his head on Simmons' shoulder... while he did tense up, he didn't move away.

After a few more moments of thinking, Grif muttered, "Sorry. I'm not angry about that thing with Sister. I was angry about... other things.  And I just wanted an excuse to yell about something. "

Simmons uncovered his eyes. He still looked cranky. "Yeah, that completely justifies punching me in the face, doesn't it?"

"Fuck you. But seriously, I was a jackass. The punching and yelling and saying you don't give a shit about your family... all that bullshit. My bad. Sorry."

Simmons uncrossed his arms, glancing sideways at Grif. "Right. Whatever. What was that stuff about you being angry at other things?"

"Uh... nothing."

"You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

The mood lapsed back into awkward silence, with Simmons fidgeting with his fingers and Grif now staring at the wall. But at least Grif didn't want to scream any more. And Simmons looked a little less grumpy.

 

* * *

 

Lopez was enjoying the peace around the cell block. Sure, it had been incredibly noisy and irritating the previous day, but with all the people surrounding his cell in the shoe it was quiet for the first time since he'd been locked up. The cupcake had returned not long ago, but he'd been quiet since returning to his cell. If Lopez listened closely, he could hear snoring. But it was quiet enough to ignore.

As he flicked through a book he'd found on car engines, he heard footsteps. Lopez frowned and moved off the bed quickly. He'd been a little on edge since O'Malley spoke to him. He wasn't worried about getting hurt or even killed. That was how life went. He was just worried about what would happen to Sheila if it happened. It was that thought that had put him on guard. This had resulted, so far, only in Lopez getting slightly worked up whenever a guard or random inmate went walking past.

This time, when Lopez went to look outside his cell, he didn't see a guard. He just saw the idiot walking towards him. The idiot—what was his name? Caboose? Something to do with trains, odd way to name someone—saw him.

The glare he was giving Lopez was incredibly intense. Lopez could suddenly see why O'Malley would say it equaled a death sentence, because if looks could kill Lopez would have been killed, vaporized and buried. And then his grave would have exploded.

" _Why are you staring at me like that?_ "

Caboose tilted his head for a moment, glare intensifying. After a moment, he said, "I need to protect Sheila. She is a precious flower."

" _What does Sheila have to do with this?_ "

"Yes. You are a bad man. Prison is for bad men. And Ginger Nut said you were a bad man. So you have to go." Caboose paused momentary to gently toss the toy pigeon he was holding into his cell, before continuing towards Lopez.

Talking someone out of a fight was difficult without a common language, and this idiot seemed intent on some sort of fight. Lopez quickly sized up his chances.

Caboose wasn't holding a weapon. That was a plus, but then again neither was Lopez. While Lopez was pretty tough, Caboose was a lot bigger than him. Yet he couldn't find it in him to run. Lopez did not run. He would stay safe the way he always had. By punching any danger in the face until it left him alone.

Still. Maybe this was a bad idea. Lopez couldn't punch every hostile inmate into submission.

Lopez raised his fists. Just as a warning. Maybe Caboose would decide not to fight and leave. Caboose didn't make any sign of recognition when the fists were raised. Just kept walking towards him, muttering under his breath. 

Then someone appeared behind Caboose. Caboose wouldn't go beating him up in front of others, would he? What was Lopez thinking, these were bloodthirsty prisoners. Of course he would. They'd probably just take bets on who would win. Or join in. Who knew.

But then Lopez noticed that the inmate had red hair, and remembered the little flash of red he'd seen as O'Malley left the library. Even though he'd never seen O'Malley's face before... it had to be him. Because that wide smile could only belong to a madman.

Lopez wondered how long O'Malley had been waiting nearby.

O'Malley grinned and raised an eyebrow. He didn't have to say anything. He just wanted his answer.

Be a henchman or be torn into tiny pieces by this idiot?

Lopez's eyes darted from O'Malley to Caboose. Trying to pick between two choices that seemed equally insane.

Then Lopez made eye contact with O'Malley and nodded. Just once. O'Malley grinned even wider and Caboose's eyes narrowed.

"What are you nodding at?"

"He was nodding at me, Mikey."

The difference that one sentence made in Caboose was quite amazing. He froze and a look of absolute terror spread across his face almost immediately. One sentence was all it took to stop that glare. Lopez was almost impressed.

Almost.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no..." Caboose said very quickly under his breath. He didn't turn around.

"Oh, yes." O'Malley reached into his jacket, and pulled something sharp out. "Very. Much. Yes. It's been too long since I saw some blood flow."

Lopez held up his hands. " _I don't think it's necessary to—_ "

But it was too late for any reasoning. It was too fast, and Lopez couldn't really see what happened because Caboose was in the way. But he heard metal hit flesh and Caboose let out a short, high-pitched noise. Lopez couldn't even see the injury itself, he could only see the screwdriver handle sticking out of Caboose's shoulder, O'Malley still holding onto it.

"It isn't necessary at all. But it's fun and the pain helps him remember." O'Malley viciously jerked the screwdriver and Caboose screamed in pain. "Helps – him – remember – that – he – doesn't – touch – what – belongs – to – me." With every word, O'Malley twisted the screwdriver and forced more screams and sobs. Lopez had to flinch at some of the noises. "He'll just forget again, otherwise."

Even when O'Malley didn't purposely jerk the screwdriver, the shaking hands caused the screwdriver to shake in turn, tearing at the flesh around it even more. When he went to pull the screwdriver out, he couldn't.

"Hmph. You can't even get stabbed without messing it up. Now you've made me waste a screwdriver. Can't you do anything right, Mikey?" O'Malley muttered dispassionately, still tugging on the screwdriver. "I almost hope I hit something vital. I tried not to, but my aim isn't as good as it used to be. Oh well, could be interesting either way."

O'Malley twisted the screwdriver one last time before giving it an almighty pull, finally wrenching it out and letting the blood flow a lot faster. Caboose immediately backed away, bumping into the wall and cowering away from O'Malley, trying fruitlessly to stop the bleeding with just his jacket sleeve.

"Follow, Spaniard. We need to discuss things." O'Malley waved his now blood-covered hand, motioning for Lopez to follow him.

Lopez gritted his teeth, the only sign of emotion that he let himself show. He did follow O'Malley down the hall (trying his best not to look back at Caboose) but he had the strong feeling that he had made the more insane choice in doing so.

Particularly when O'Malley added, "Don't think I was just being theatrical back there. You do belong to me now."

Yeah. He regretted this already.

 

* * *

 

Donut's dreams were vivid. At first they were nice. It was warm and pink. Like his old bedroom he'd had as a kid. There had been lots of lace. And the smell of cake. Cake always made things better. There had been this sense of peace and well-being.

Which had made it all the more jarring when it swung back into his old nightmare.

Back to the screaming and snarling. Back to the stickiness. And the smell. The smell of blood was so strong, it really felt like Donut was really doing the murder all over again…

"Marble Cake!"

That was odd. Maine had seemed to like watching him make cakes sometimes. He'd seemed particularly enraptured by Donut's elaborate frosting. But Maine couldn't talk.

Something jabbed him in the side, and Donut awoke in a panic. On seeing a large, blurry figure above him, Donut's immediate reaction was to scream and back up.

"Maine, stop! Stop!"

The blurry figure immediately retracted his hands. Donut blinked the sleepiness out a little, and saw that it was Caboose. The dream had faded. Grey walls, not pink. No more screaming, no more stickiness on Donut's hands.

The smell of blood was still there.

Caboose stared down at him, looking pale and shaky. His hands were covered in blood. More was dripping from the large stab wound in his shoulder.

"...Oh shit," Donut breathed.


	4. Chapter Four: Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of O'Malley's talk with Doc occur.

Doc gazed at the cat poster. Staring at that poster, that shamelessly cheery poster, was his default activity when there was nothing to do, or when he was too deep in thought to really focus on anything else. It was all he'd been doing since O'Malley had torn apart every little illusion he had about himself.

He'd thought he'd been doing some good. He knew he wasn't a good doctor. Or even really a doctor. But he thought he'd been doing at least a little bit of good. But he couldn't recall the last time that something had gone right. He was good at some procedures. He was good enough for the basics. But how many had died or been hurt because he didn't know more than that?

There was a loud knocking at the door, but Doc didn't even realise it immediately. Too out of it. He didn't feel like he was entirely attached to reality.

The knocking kept going and yelling accompanied it this time.

"Doc! Open the door! Come on, you gotta open the door!"

Doc snapped out of it. "Right. Hang on."

When he opened the door, Donut entered. He was half-dragging Caboose along with him, holding his once-orange jacket to the bigger man's shoulder. It was much more red than orange by this point.

"You gotta help him. I think he was stabbed, he hasn't said anything except that he felt dizzy," Donut said frantically. "You don't mess up stab wounds, right? I saw you, I saw you help Church once. You can help, right? Right?"

"Uh. Yeah, I... I think I can..." Doc closed his eyes briefly. "Put him on the cot. Lie him down, keep him still. I'll... I'll try."

Donut nodded, leading Caboose over to the cot while Doc rifled through the cabinets. Donut was right. He'd managed to fix up stab wounds before. If he couldn't do that, he would have been kicked out a long time ago. It was one of those few things he could do right.

"Okay, remove the jacket. I have to clean it before... before stitching."

Donut peeled the blood-soaked jacket away from the stab wound. Doc winced. This one was jagged, twisted... not a simple stab wound at all. Doc was willing to bet everything he owned that it was O'Malley's work.

He could do this.

But when Doc located the anesthetic, his mind blanked on how much he was supposed to give. How much was it? He remembered giving the wrong amount once. He'd given far too much and ended up putting the patient into a coma and they hadn't come out of it…

"Doc, is he supposed to be this clammy?" Donut asked, his hand on Caboose's forehead. Caboose wasn't really reacting, he didn't even looked focused. Too pale, and the eyes were too glassy. "That's not good, is it?"

And now he was probably going into shock, too. Doc tried to calm down, he tried to remember his breathing exercises from yoga. In and out. In and out. In and—

"Doc!”

"Right, stitches. Stitches. Anesthetic. Stitches."

Doc still couldn't remember the amount of anesthetic. Maybe skip it? He could skip it, right?

"There's blood covering the floor down in the cells." Wash strode into the room, and his eyes landed on Donut immediately. "What happened to cover your cell in blood?"

"Not the time! Come on!" Donut said desperately.

Doc had the needle ready. He was ready. He thought he was, anyway. Although his mind was mostly a mass of panic. But he was ready. He could do this.

"Doc, I don't think I should have to tell you to do your job... but you're supposed to sterilize the needle," Wash said shortly. "Unless you're trying to infect him and kill him. If you are, then I'm sorry for interrupting."

Doc stared down at the needle for a moment. A long moment. Then he dropped it.

"I can't do it," Doc whispered.

Donut looked horrified. "Can't do it? You're a doctor!"

"I'm not a doctor! I'm... I'm…"

_I'm a murderer. Oh god, I'm a fucking murderer!_

He couldn't do it, he didn't want to do it, he just wanted to curl up somewhere and hide, just ignore the whole mess until it went away. It'd probably be less harmful than actually trying to help.

Doc did the only thing that made sense to him at that moment. He ran.

 

* * *

 

"Wait! Doc!"

Donut let go of Caboose briefly, but a whimper from that direction made Donut immediately hold onto his friend's arm again.

"It'll be okay, Caboose. It'll... It'll be fine," Donut said shakily.

"If you're going to stand there, do something useful. They'll be time for cuddling later," Wash muttered. He reached down, picked up the needle that Doc had dropped. "Prop his legs up. A foot in the air, use some of Doc's books to hold them there."

"Wha—"

"Just do it!"

"Okay!"

Donut quickly grabbed some of the books lying around, tucking them under Caboose's legs. When he looked back at Wash, Wash had his back turned, sterilizing the needle in the sink. "Do you know what you're doing?”

"It's been a long time, but yes. I'm not a doctor, but I've done first aid before. Don't know anything about the anesthetic, so we'll have to skip that bit." Wash turned back, nodding his head at Caboose. "Make sure he's breathing."

"Yeah, he is."

"Good. Now get out."

"What? I can't do that, I gotta—" Donut protested.

"You're only a distraction, Donut. You can wait outside. Or wait in the yard. Or hide under Sarge's desk, for all it matters. But here you're only in the way. Out."

Donut didn't want to go, but he honestly couldn't think of a proper reason to stay. He'd been freaking out just a few moments ago because he had no idea what to do. And he still couldn't do anything.

When he tried to leave, a hand caught on his wrist. Caboose had grabbed it and was looking at him with wide, glassy eyes. He looked like he was trying to speak, but the words weren't coming out. Donut gripped Caboose's hand tightly for a second.

"I'll be just outside. Nothing's going to happen to you, alright?" Donut said as soothingly as he could manage, although his voice was trembling like mad. Caboose held on for a moment longer, then let go.

Donut quickly left, so Wash could get on with it. Once he'd shut the door behind him, Donut sat down, his back against the opposite wall. He didn't care how long it took. He wasn't moving until he was sure Caboose would be fine.

If he couldn't do anything useful, he could at least do that.

 

* * *

 

The awkward silence persisted. Grif hadn't budged from his position next to Simmons, head still resting on his shoulder. Simmons was picking at his fingernails. He always complained when Grif did that. It was one of his many peeves. Though he was nowhere near as angry as he got when someone drank milk out of the carton. Something that Grif had done almost every day that they had lived together.

By now they were both experts at making the other angry. Grif was better at it, if only because Simmons was so neurotic and easy to annoy.

"How come you can pick at your fingernails, but I can't?" Grif spoke up. Simmons blinked, then looked down at his hands.

"Oh. Didn't realise I was."

Simmons was so insistent on keeping everything in perfect order, and he was so damn shy. He still wore underwear into the showers. Grif hadn't even seen him completely naked until several months after they were locked up, since Simmons was always insistent on keeping the lights off when it came to sex. He'd only foregone that rule when it was a choice between 'lights-on sex' and 'no sex.' Even that had taken several months.

Grif looked sideways at Simmons. He kept making a movement with his hands like he was going to go back to picking at his nails. But he'd stop himself and put his hands back down.

"Bored?"

"What? The silence is really fucking awkward.”

"Yeah."

"So are we gonna talk this stupid thing out or aren't we?"

"Not ready yet."

"Fuck."

"Hey, I already apologized. It's your turn to speak."

"Speak about what?"

"Well, for starters... I don't even know why you got so pissy about what I said. I mean... you haven't even seen your family since you were, what, eighteen?"

"Mm."

"I mean, I got that I said something bad. I just don't know what was bad about it."

Simmons shook his head. "It was stupid. Just forget about it."

"Hey, that's a fucking cop-out. Come on!"

"Forget about it."

"Jerk."

"Ass."

Grif fidgeted. He knew that Simmons' family could be a touchy subject, but it was more pointing out that his parents hadn't cared for him that was a sore point. Not the reverse. It wasn't like he talked about them in any fond way. He didn't even have any pictures. The only photos that Simmons had ever had in his room were of the two of them and Sister. That was it.

Shit, that really was it.

"You weren't mad about me saying that about your family, were you?" Grif said slowly. "You were mad because you worry about her, too. And I said you wouldn't get that."

"I told you it was stupid," Simmons muttered. "You're right. I couldn't possibly understand how worried you get over Sister. Doesn't matter if you guys are..." Simmons' ears went bright red with embarrassment. "...are the closest thing I've ever had to an actual family that... y'know, cares and shit. But I couldn't possibly get what you and Sister have, could I? Because no matter how much I might want it... I was never—could never—really be a part of it. No space for your weird, neurotic roommate, right?"

Grif groaned. "That's what was bothering you? You're right, that's stupid." He knocked a fist against Simmons' head lightly. "Idiot. Don't you remember? Right before we got shoved in here? What I told you?"

"You told me to take care of Sister."

"Right. And even though you totally sucked at it…"

"Hey!"

"Dude, you got stuck in here with me instead. You sucked at it. But I would have never trusted you to protect Sister if I... didn't... you know. Trust me, you're part of it.”

Simmons shifted a little, ears still bright red. "God, this fight would have been a lot easier if we'd talked like that at the start of it."

"Yeah. Then you wouldn't look like a panda."

Simmons rolled his eyes and slapped Grif lightly on the back of the head. He shifted again, turning a bit so his face was partly buried in Grif's hair. After a moment, he muttered, "Urgh, you smell like old orange juice."

"Just the pruno."

"Gross.”

 

* * *

 

Donut had his forehead resting against his knees. Trying to block out the sounds. He could hear whimpers and sounds of pain. He could practically pinpoint whenever the needle went in from the sounds. But he didn't want to hear that much. He just wanted to know when Caboose would be safe.

It felt like an age before the infirmary door swung open again.

"He'll probably be fine. At least he's not in severe shock. Still needs proper medical attention, but he wouldn't have got that from Doc anyway." Wash looked mildly irritated, but then again he always did. "Guess this could have been worse. Anyway, you. Stay in there while I inform Sarge that we have no-one to attend the infirmary."

Donut climbed to his feet. "I can do that. Uh... thanks."

"Don't be thankful, Donut. It's just too much paperwork if an inmate dies around one of us. If it were up to me..." Wash trailed off. "Well, you get the idea. Now tell me, why is so much of his blood around your cot?"

Donut shifted nervously. "I don't know, I was asleep when it happened. He woke me up."

"Really. Forgive me if the word of a convicted murderer doesn't convince me. Just get in the room and make sure your friend doesn't die, alright? I have to go."

"What do I do if something happens?" Donut yelled at Wash's retreating back.

"It's not my problem.”

 

* * *

 

"But... I don't remember anything about medicine or how to do stitches or... anything!"

"Eh, no-one's perfect."

"I just left someone bleeding to death up there right now!"

"Oh, give him some orange juice. He'll be fine."

The argument was loud, and Wash could hear it even before he reached Sarge's office.

"People keep dying around me!" he heard Doc yelling.

"There's a bright side to that! Completely solved the over-crowding in cells. You've done a great service to this prison, Doc." Sarge seemed a little too cheerful and proud about that. No wonder the doctor was incompetent, with him doing the hiring.

When Wash strode into the office, he saw Sarge seated behind his desk, and Flowers using the desk itself as his seat. Cards were strewn about, like a pack of them had exploded. Sarge was still holding a few of them, as was Flowers. Doc turned around and, once he saw Wash, paled almost instantly.

"Um... What happened to..." Doc started.

"He's fine. Stitched up," Wash said before Doc could finish. "He'll live, provided that nothing else happens."

Doc covered his face, and Wash heard him breathe a huge sigh of relief.

"That's... really good." He turned back to Sarge. "I'm doing more damage staying here than not having a doctor at all would be. I resign."

"No, you don't," Sarge said, in a matter-of-fact way.

"I... Yes, I..." Doc looked uncomfortable. Too afraid of arguments. Wash sighed, and crossed his arms. Sarge could be stubborn when it came to keeping staff. Perhaps he just wanted to maintain a level of insanity within the prison, or maybe it was because people who could withstand his incompetence were rare and hard to come by. But there was one thing that would always make him angry. If Doc really wanted to resign, then a lie wouldn't hurt his chances.

"He's been giving special medical treatment to Blues," Wash said quietly. It wasn't entirely a lie. If only because people that were considered 'blues' seemed to attract injuries more. Doc looked surprised and confused for a moment, until Sarge spoke again.

"What? Doc, you no-good rotten scoundrel!" he shouted, so loudly that Flowers winced and covered his ears.

"Don't you have an indoor voice, Sarge? I'd quite like to retain the use of my eardrums," Flowers said calmly.

"Can it, goldilocks! And as for you, you traitorous bastard... Well, can't let you stay here. Many deaths and little medical knowledge is one thing, but giving the Blues special treatment? You are fired."

"I was resigning," Doc said nervously.

"I said you were fired! Pack up your stuff, get out."

"Okay." Doc turned around, left the room. He hesitated a little at the door, but only for a moment.

"You know, you give special treatment to your Reds," Flowers pointed out, still holding his playing cards. "And if we don't have any medical staff it will cause problems, especially if someone decides to check in."

"I said shut your cakehole." Sarge scratched the stubble on his chin. "Er, you. Washington. You said you stitched up someone?"

"Yes."

"Great. Means you got the most medical training in this place. That makes you our temporary doctor."

"Okay. ...Wait, what?”

 

* * *

 

Donut was worried for two reasons. The first reason was that as soon as he had gotten close enough to Caboose's cot, Caboose had grabbed his hand and refused to let go. This would not have been a problem had Caboose not been clinging onto his arm so tightly that Donut was starting to lose all feeling in it. He hoped his fingers wouldn't go purple.

The second thing that was troubling him was that Caboose hadn't spoken a word, not since he'd told Donut he was dizzy. He'd made noises occasionally in response to Donut's talking, but he hadn't said anything coherent.

"Caboose? What's wrong?" Caboose blinked, then pointed at the fresh stitches on his shoulder. Donut sighed and shook his head. "I meant besides that." That only earned a shrug. "You want to talk about it?" That caused a nervous look. "Are you having problems talking?" A shrug. "You won't know unless you try. Come on, you're starting to worry me. Just say something. Anything?"

There was a long stretch of silence. Donut had given up waiting and was back to wondering if his hand was going to fall off from lack of air when Caboose finally said, "Fudge?"

"Oh, you spoke! Want to talk about what's troubling you?"

"No. I was not troubled. I was just afraid I could not talk, because I was having trouble earlier. But I said 'Fudge,' so I must be able to talk," Caboose said, nodding to himself.

"Why wouldn't you be able to talk? Did you hurt your throat as well?"

"No. I just have trouble sometimes. And it is very scary." Caboose's grip tightened even more. "Very, very scary. I do not want it to happen again. Are you okay? You are not hurt, are you?"

"Why would I be hurt? You're the one with all the stitches. Did O'Malley attack you?"

"How did you know?"

"I was guessing, mostly. He's the only guy I can think of that goes around stabbing people." Donut reached upwards and felt his own shoulder where O'Malley had slashed him years ago. Even though it had been shallow, the scar was still there. Caboose's eyes followed the movement that Donut made, and he frowned.

"O'Malley is very scary.”

"Yeah. Well, anyone who stabs people is."

"It is not the stabbing that is scary," Caboose muttered. "Stabbing is not scary. It just hurts. And it has happened before. It always happens when I do something he does not like. Last time was a lot badder."

"That sucks."

"Yes. It does. But that was not what I was meant to talk about. I was meant to say something..." Caboose blinked a few times, and moved his arm. Unfortunately, that caused him to move his stitched shoulder. "Ow!"

"There, there." Donut stroked Caboose's hand gently, and Caboose clung tighter. Donut was now certain his hand was going to fall off.

"Church!"

"Hm?"

"That was what I meant to say. Church is not protected. And O'Malley is running around, and he will know Church is not safe and he will get all stabby again!" Caboose let go of Donut's arm and started to climb off the cot. "I have to go and find him."

"No, no, no. You have to rest. You've lost too much blood to be running around," Donut said sternly, trying to stop Caboose from getting up. It didn't matter much. As soon as Caboose climbed to his feet, he had to grab onto the cot post just to stay standing.

"The floor is twirling," Caboose mumbled.

"Back on the cot, come on." Donut guided Caboose back to the cot, made him sit down. Donut flexed his hand a few times, trying to regain feeling, before placing it on Caboose's forehead. "You're still really clammy. You have to stay there, alright?"

"But... But, Church…"

"He'll be fine. I'll warn him, and he'll stay near the guards. That'll work, won't it?"

"Maybe." Caboose returned to gripping Donut's hand. "I am sorry for ruining your jacket."

"My jacket? Oh, right." Donut looked sideway at the sink. His blood-soaked jacket was sitting next to it. "That's okay. I have a spare one in my cell."

The infirmary door opened and Doc edged in. He looked once at the two of them, and then looked away.

"Um. Sorry. I just came to... get some things," Doc said quietly, walking towards one of the cabinets.

Donut stood up, although he couldn't move far due to Caboose still gripping his hand like he'd die if he let go. "What the hell, Doc? Why'd you run off? You know how to—"

"Donut. Please, I... I just don't want to talk about this, alright?" Doc said. He started removing a few items from the cabinets that weren't medical items. He dumped a jar of lollipops and another of butterscotch candies inside his bag. He picked up a bottle of mouthwash and studied it for a moment before placing it back on the shelf. "Don't need that. Not anymore."

"Mouthwash? Can I have it? I can't afford mouthwash from Wyoming," Donut said, momentarily distracted.

"Sure." Doc removed it from the shelf again and placed it on a counter not far from Donut. He started to gather his various books on yoga and tai chi. "I, um... I really am sorry. For... for running off and all. I... I panicked." Doc smiled weakly as he took down the duck-covered curtains that dangled around one of the cots. "Won't happen again."

"Hm." Donut looked at Caboose. "You forgive him?"

"What'd he do?"

"Never mind. It's fine." Donut said.

"Good to know." Doc spent the next few minutes taking down all the motivational posters.

"Did you get canned?" Donut asked, tilting his head as he watched Doc pack up anything that marked the room as his workplace.

"You really think I deserve to keep this job, after running out like that?"

"Well..." Donut shrugged. He had to be honest with himself and internally admit that he wasn't sure if Doc ever deserved this job, as friendly of a guy as he was. "Where are you going to go, then?"

"Haven't decided." Doc sighed as he tried to remove a poster that featured a diagram of a cow's anatomy. "I'll probably end up working at a coffee shop or something."

"Why a coffee shop?"

"I don't know. It was just what came to mind first, that's all." Doc crossed his arms, focusing on the 'hanging kitty' poster. He reached out, as if he was going to take it down, but then he pulled his hands back. "Alright. I'm done." He stacked up all the belongings he had located, scooped them up into his arms. "I'm really done." He looked around the infirmary. "Seems emptier."

"You did take down a lot of posters," Donut observed.

"Yeah." Doc made his way to the door. He pushed it open with his foot, looking back. "Good luck with prison and everything."

"Good luck with... coffee-making?"

"Appreciate it.”

 

* * *

 

"Shit." Church scowled at his food, pushing it around with his fork. "He better not take long to get better. Having to stick near the guards really limits what I can do."

"Now we're limited to card games," Tucker sighed. "Card games are no fun. Church always loses. That's boring."

"Shut up."

"You do. I swear, you have the worst luck I've ever seen."

"Obviously. I'm stuck with you and Dye-Job, what's not unlucky about that?"

"Seriously. My hair isn't dyed anymore, you really need to stop with the nickname," Donut complained. He prodded at the vegetables. "Trade the green bits for the orange parts? I think they're carrots, I can't really tell. But I like the taste more."

"No can do."

"Aw.”

"Anyway, Dye-Job," Tucker started. "You should probably stick near the guards, too. Doc might have sucked, but if we don't have a doctor at all…"

"We have Wash. He can do stitches."

Church jerked a bit, accidentally spilling his bowl of stew a little. "Wash is?" he groaned. "That insane douchebag is our doctor? Jesus, we're all gonna die."

"Really?" Donut questioned. "Is he that bad? I know he's tough, but…"

"No. No, Wash is bad news," Church insisted angrily, waving around his spoon. Donut looked at Tucker with his eyebrow raised, but Tucker just shrugged as if to say 'I don't know what his deal is, either.' "He's just... you know he's nuts, right?"

"I thought that was just insults."

"No, guy's a loony bin. He's been in one. Only works here because no other place will take him." Church stood up and pushed the remainder of his stew at Donut. "Fine, have the orange bits, I don't give a shit."

"Awesome," Donut said, tugging the tray of stew and vegetables towards him.

"Wait, where are you going?" Tucker asked. "You gonna walk around by yourself? Dude, that never works out well."

"It'll be fine, it'll just be for a minute. I wanna check this out, just confirm that Loony Bin Wash is really the doctor."

"Oh, don't believe me? Thanks," Donut grumbled.

"Of course he doesn't. Don't you remember how I got this?" Tucker said, gesturing at the scar across his face.

"Point taken.”

 

* * *

 

Medication was late. When dinner was served, inmates who required medication with it were told to wait in the cafeteria due to some kind of hold up. It was sure to cause problems. Many of them required medication, for illness or a bad case of the crazies. But O'Malley didn't care about that. He was more curious as to what could make Doc be so late on medication. A good doctor he was not, but Doc was punctual when it came to dishing out tablets that he knew nothing about.

He was probably zoning out while staring at his ridiculous kitty poster. Still, O'Malley wasn't quite at ease. It was unlike Doc. Perhaps he was suffering ill effects from O'Malley's little talk. He hadn't meant for that little bombshell to land so soon, but once O'Malley had started he hadn't been able to stop.

He did hope it hadn't destroyed Doc completely. Or else there would be no self-esteem or good feelings and delusions left to chip at, and then what would entertain him?

Of course, O'Malley hadn't waited in the cafeteria. Rather than wait, O'Malley had decided to visit the infirmary and discover why Doc was being held up. When O'Malley reached the infirmary door, however, he heard voices.

"How can they expect me to understand this? I can't even pronounce some of these." That was Wash's voice. "I mean, I know thorazine, depakote and trazadone, but most of the others are gibberish. Can you check the labels for... olanzapine? Huh, I wonder if Doc actually knew what that is."

"Don't make me read the labels. Reading hurts as it is, and the lettering is tiny." York's voice. O'Malley grinned slightly at the mention of reading difficulty. He did take pride in the pain caused to others. Especially when it had lasting effects.

But why were they in there? Perhaps Wash and York were delivering medication. But that didn't seem right. Wash never delivered medication and York did so rarely. Normally that duty was delegated to North and South.

"York. Sorry, but... can you just try to read the labels? We're running late as it is."

"Alright, alright. You're welcome, by the way."

O'Malley's curiosity got the better of him. Doc didn't leave until all the inmates were locked in their cells. If he wasn't in there... then O'Malley wanted to know why.

He shoved open the door. It was just Wash, York and a huddled lump on one of the cots that was probably a sleeping Caboose. Wash was looking through a tattered old notebook, the one which Doc used to keep track of all the inmate's medications. York was holding bottles of various medications. When they saw O'Malley, York's expression got somewhat uneasy while Wash's was just plain hostile.

"Ugh. And we just got Church out of here," York sighed.

"You're supposed to be in the cafeteria. Like everyone else that requires medication," Wash said coldly. "Out.”

"I'd prefer my medication from the doctor," O'Malley said, linking his hands behind his back. It helped hide the shaking, which always messed up any moment he tried to be intimidating. "You're even less of a doc than Doc, Wash. Where is he?"

Wash ignored him, turning a few pages of the notebook. "York, find O'Malley's medication. We have that sorted out already, don't we?"

"Yeah. Here it is."

"Thank you. I'd rather do it now than chasing him down later. I'll hold his arms. You get the stuff in."

"Where. Is. Doc?" O'Malley repeated, even as Wash got up, grabbed his arms. O'Malley did struggle a little, but he didn't want to waste the energy. It was near impossible to get out of Wash's grip, he knew that from experience. And he was more focused on getting answers.

"I don't think it's any of your business."

Anything Doc did was O'Malley's business.

"Come near me and I'll bite your fingers off."

York was holding the cup of medication, but he had yet to try and force them in. He sighed before saying, "Look. I know you're just going to come back demanding more answers if I don't tell you now, so Doc left. He resigned. And that's all I know about it, so don't come back demanding to know why."

_He... left?_

O'Malley was too focused on that thought that he didn't even try struggling as York forced his mouth open and tipped the meds in.

_He left? He left? How…_

Once the pills had been swallowed, Wash unceremoniously shoved O'Malley out the infirmary and shut the door behind him. O'Malley managed to keep his composure on the way back to his cell. If only because he wasn't quite sure how to feel. And even when he reached his cell, he didn't know what to do with himself for a long time. He just stood there.

_How... How could he?_

O'Malley's hands weren't just shaking from the after-effects of bad medication.

_How could he do that? He... He wasn't supposed to leave. I…_

They were shaking from rage.

_I wasn't finished. He wasn't supposed to leave. I wasn't finished with him!_

O'Malley's shaking hands curled into fists.

_I wasn't finished with him! How... how could he? How dare he... how dare he leave…_

O'Malley didn't shout or yell or make any loud noise. He just raised his fist and smashed it into the wall. And again, and again. And with every punch, another angry thought.

_He left. He left! That... traitor. Traitor. That traitor! He left, how could he? How could he do that to me? I told him..._

O'Malley only stopped punching the wall once he'd scraped most of the skin off his knuckles in doing so. It hadn't helped get the rage out. If anything, he was even more furious.

O'Malley started pacing the cell. His feet didn't want to stand still.

His mind was ticking. Trying to think of ways to get Doc back. Because Doc wasn't allowed to just walk out. He rubbed his skinned knuckles and felt a trickle of blood dripping down his wrist. He paid no attention to it. It didn't matter.

He would make Doc come back. And if Doc wouldn't? O'Malley would just have to find him.

 

* * *

 

Donut had been planning to hide in his cell until lights out. The idea of O'Malley being more active made him a bit nervous. But as he approached his cell, he heard the squelching noise of someone using a mop and someone humming a tune absently. Donut peered into his cell to see North pushing a mop around, cleaning up the copious amount of blood that Caboose had left everywhere.

"Don't they get inmates to do this, normally?" Donut asked. North looked up.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, normally. I'm not even on duty. I was going home, and Sarge pointed at me and went 'clean up this area, I have no time to find an actual prisoner' and then he left. It's cool. It's always me or South that ends up with this stuff. Don't know why. Guess we're just unofficial janitors."

Donut watched for a few moments. Apart from his normal phobia against messes, the blood was making him queasy and bringing back old memories and he wanted it out of his cell as soon as possible. "Got a spare mop? I can help."

"No, but there's spare sponges in the bucket. Thanks, by the way."

"It's fine. It's my cell, and I don't want it to smell like... you know."

Donut got down on his knees to start cleaning. But god, the smell was ridiculously strong and it felt like it was seeping into the bricks. Donut tried to hold his breath but quickly realised that wasn't a proper option, and closing his eyes so that he didn't have to see the reddish-brown stains just made the smell worse.

God, he was kneeling in Caboose's blood, this was just... Donut could hear Caboose's whimpering in the back of his head and was suddenly reminded of his roommate once again, even though the only remote similarity had been that they were both pretty big, and he started thinking of the noises and the smell and how sticky it'd been—

"Donut? Donut's your name, right?"

"What?" Donut looked up at North, who was gazing down at him with concern.

"You just kind of froze." North stared at him for a few more moments before holding out the mop. "Look, give me the sponges. You can use the mop. You'll be further away from it, right? If you want, you can just go away until I'm done as well. I don't mind."

"No, no, it's... it's okay. But, uh... the mop works. Thank you." Donut handed North the sponges and started pushing the mop around. It was still horrible, but this way it was at least bearable.

"So, uh, Donut. Don't think we've really spoken before. You know my sister?"

"South, right? Yeah. I've seen her a little, haven't talked to her, either.”

"You haven't, huh? I thought... never mind. You got any siblings?"

"No. If I ever did, I don't remember them. I was adopted."

"Ouch. Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine! I got two really nice mothers. It's cool, why are you apologizing?"

"Well, I was trying to bring up a nice subject, and any subject that starts with 'my parents died and I don't remember them' seems kind of like a downer," North said, shrugging as he scraped away at some particularly stubborn bloodstains.

"Family's nice, though. Oh my god, are we trading family stories? None of the guys ever want to do that!" Donut said excitedly. "I tried once, but Church glared daggers at me about it, Tucker told me that most of his father figures were his mother's regulars, Grif said his mother joined the circus and his father was an unknown entity, Simmons muttered something about them being robots and Caboose started but then he clammed up once he started talking about his mother and said he didn't want to talk about it any more."

"Your friends have some messed up families. But as for me... weeeeell, silly family stories where the worst that happens is mild embarrassment are right up my alley," North said, smiling back.

The next fifteen minutes were spent happily comparing family stories. Just silly little domestic stuff. Stuff that Donut never realised he missed so much until he reminisced about sitting around the television and watching crime shows or soaps with his mothers while they ate cake. Listening to North and his twin stories made Donut wish he'd had siblings, or the chance to raise kids, or something like that. It sounded nice

"—and then they dressed us both in identical frilly dresses and stuck a wig on my head, because apparently that was much cuter," North finished, as he wiped off the corner of the cell.

"Awwww," Donut cooed. "Do you have pictures?"

"Not ones you'll ever see."

"Darn it."

"Well, guess we're done." North dropped the sponge back in the bucket of water. Donut blinked and looked around.

"Really? I was caught up in the stories, didn't realise—"

"That's a good thing, right?" North said, grinning in a sly fashion.

"Yeah, it... yeah. Thanks."

"Not a problem." North took back the mop. "Don't like blood, huh?"

"Who does?"

"Well, I've never seen someone freeze up like that. Admittedly, everyone I know is a security guard."

"I just don't like kneeling in it, is all. Plus, it's... you know, it belongs to a friend, and I just... bad memories, you know?" Donut mumbled.

"Understandable, sure." North tilted his head and focused on Donut for a moment before saying, "I just don't see how you could be dangerous."

"Who said I was?"

"Ah, no-one. No-one. Okay, a couple of people, but... you know, that's just random theories. I guess... I mean, it's just..." North rested the mop against the wall for a moment, waving his hands around a little. "See, Wash thinks you're hiding something. Thinks you're suspicious. And normally that's just... you know, regular suspicious Wash. But South agrees with this, and those two don't get along on anything. And I mean anything." North shrugged. "Sorry, I really digressed."

"Why would they think I'm hiding something?"

"Not a clue. If it makes you feel better, you seem alright to me. I mean, besides the murder thing."

"Self-defence."

"Then you're completely cool with me."

"Awesome.”

 

* * *

 

"How's Caboose doing?" Tucker asked, while trying to stick up Junior's pictures again. Several of them had fallen down, and Tucker was having trouble sticking them to the wall because the tape had worn out.

"Eh. Alright. Couldn't get him to wake up at the time, but he didn't seem in pain. Just kept mumbling about cowboys in his sleep. Dumbass. Anyway, then I got kicked out by Wash."

"Anything happen while you were checking shit out?"

"Nah. We're still all going to die, though. Wash even admitted that he doesn't know shit about medicine," Church grumbled.

"And Doc did?"

"Point taken." Church sat down on the ground, watching Tucker hang up the pictures. He was having trouble with one of Junior's later drawings. "Still upset about the Junior thing?"

"Fuck yeah I am. But... well. I'll deal with it. I'm not gonna go crying on your shoulder again or anything."

"Eh... It's... It's alright." Church rested his chin on his hands. "I kinda... get the whole 'kid is growing up too fast' thing. And that was on the outside, so... I guess it'd be a lot worse in here. Or something."

Tucker glanced back at Church briefly before focusing on the drawings again. "Thinking about your little bro?"

"Mmhm."

"You know... I just can't see you being big brotherly. Any time I try, it always ends up with you being insulting. 'You scraped your knee, Eddie? Oh, don't cry like that. Suck it up, you big baby.'"

"Fuck you.”


	5. Chapter Five: Angels and Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Malley retaliates. It's very bloody.

O'Malley hadn't managed to sleep. The entire night had been spent trying to think of some way to get Doc back, while occasionally kicking things around his cell. It hadn't gone well, and he'd been punched in the stomach by Tex for making too much noise at one point. She was a feisty one. But he could mess with her later. She was always there. She hadn't left him.

Now he was stuck pacing his cell, trying to think of something—anything—to concentrate the amount of energy that was filling him at the moment. Anger was a powerful fuel source.

He wanted Doc to come back. But if it was possible, it wouldn't happen instantaneously. Doc was such a baby that simply asking him to come back wouldn't work. O'Malley would have to provide incentive. If that didn't work, then O'Malley would find Doc himself, which would be much more difficult. Interesting, if he could actually pull it off. But difficult. But in the meantime... incentive. That was tricky. What could possibly convince Doc to come back?

O'Malley scowled at the walls. He struggled with his thoughts on the matter. He was sure the answer would be something obvious, he just couldn't quite grasp it.

Violence, however, tended to make things more interesting, if not better. Perhaps he should just go with whatever violent impulses went through his head. Aside from his foremost urge to kick open the prison gates. That would just end with him being shot by whichever guard was on duty. Being shot dead would only be interesting for a couple of seconds.

O'Malley had his fingers twisted in his hair, and was tugging on it. He barely noticed that it hurt, he just had to do something with his hands. As he did so, he heard someone walk past his cell.

It wasn't the footsteps that got his attention. It was the fact that he caught a whiff of spearmint as they walked by.

Spearmint. Just like Doc's mouthwash. Strong mouthwash – O'Malley could always smell it on him if he pestered Doc more than once in a day. O'Malley lifted his head, but the person who smelt of spearmint had already gone by. O'Malley jumped to his feet, stuck his head out of the cell in time to see Donut before he hurried out of sight.

The pastry had been stealing Doc's mouthwash. He'd been taking what belongs to Doc. Or maybe Doc gave it to him. But he's been using what belongs to Doc, and what belongs to Doc belongs to O'Malley.

O'Malley didn't show his usual grin. He just couldn't make it appear on his face. But he felt a little better. He had something to focus on, now.

Of course, past experience had told him that he'd need someone to hold Donut down. Time to see if Lopez was really worth having as a henchman.

 

* * *

 

The shoe did have its advantages. For one, it was possible to share a cot without getting too many strange looks. Only for the guards who delivered food, and even then it wasn't as awkward as trying to snuggle with any inmate that walks by able to look in.

Of course, sharing a cot did have the difficulty of trying to move to get breakfast when a large Hawaiian man had fallen asleep on him.

"Grif! Come on, get off me.”

"Nn…"

"Kinda difficult to breathe under here."

"Fuck off, 'm sleeping…"

"Food's here."

"I'm up."

"Fatass."

Minutes passed by, interrupted only by chewing noises. Breakfast was the only meal of the day where it was possible to tell what every part of the meal was, as opposed to the mystery meat served at lunch and the stuff served at dinner that was probably vegetables, although no one was ever sure.

Grif was prodding at his cereal, looking moody.

"It's gonna go soggy if you keep poking at it instead of eating," Simmons pointed out.

"I know. Just thinking."

"You can't eat and think at the same time?"

"Sure I can. It's just harder, is all."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Stuff."

"Hey, I told you what was annoying me."

"No, you didn't. I just guessed. You're not that difficult to figure out, Simmons."

"Well, sorry if I'm better at reading binary codes than at reading people. I'll trade my roll for your fruit."

"Deal. And nothing's really wrong. It just feels kinda weird." Grif pushed his cereal around the bowl for a while, before saying, "You ever feel like time is... kinda frozen in here?"

"Frozen how? Frozen like in Bernard's Watch or like in Groundhog Day?"

"What the fuck is Bernard's Watch?"

"I dunno, I saw it on the internet once. Kid had a magic stopwatch? I think it was British."

"Doesn't matter. The second one. It's... you know. Nothing ever fucking changes in this shithole. I mean, come on. Nine years, and the biggest change they've had is that they serve mystery meat instead of macaroni. Big fucking change. Otherwise... same stuff happens everyday. Get up, work, lunch, yard time, bed time. That's all that ever happens. We still got the same guards, and Sarge still runs the place despite being an insane ex-soldier who still thinks he's fighting a war. And for the inmates, well... Always the same. You kiss ass, Donut talks continuously about crockpot recipes and Church just blackmails everyone in sight. Just one big fucking loop over and over and over…

"Meanwhile, look at the outside. It's going by at, like five times the fucking speed. People growing up there like fucking plants. Motherfucking plants getting knocked up and having kids and here we're stuck in a fucking loop.”

"What?"

"I dunno. I miss the outside." Grif scowled at his cereal. "Sister's growing up, having kids... Doesn't need me. And the only change going on with me is that I'm getting really fucking old."

"Grif, you're thirty-four."

"Thirty-four is old. I'm aging. And I ain't aging like wine. I'm aging like pruno." Grif squinted at Simmons, before grabbing his face and tilting it left and right.

"Hey, quit it."

"You're getting older, too. Your hair is going grey."

"Only a little bit!" Simmons said defensively, shoving Grif's hands away. "So, I'm going grey early... figures that the hair would be wrong compared to the rest of the family. Wrong to the tiniest detail."

"Oh, suck it up."

Grif dropped his cereal bowl and returned to the cot, flopping down on it with a sigh. Simmons sat down next to him.

After a stretch of silence, Grif said, "This place really does suck."

"Could be worse."

"Yeah, you're right. I could have been stuck here without you. That would have been lame."

Simmons ducked his head, his ears bright red from embarrassment. "Heh. If we keep talking about this, it's gonna go down a sappy route."

"Yeah. A really sappy route. But no-one's around, and sometimes a little sap is nice." Grif grinned. He swung one leg over Simmons, rolling over until he was straddling him. "So... make-up sex?"

Simmons wrinkled his nose, although he was smiling back. "Honestly, have you ever put less effort into an offer of make-up sex? And you haven't brushed your teeth since you drank all that pruno."

"Neither have you. Do you care?"

"Well, I care a little. It's gonna taste gross. ...But I'll live.”

 

* * *

 

"Uh."

Donut raised his eyebrow at the mess the infirmary was in. Most of the furniture had been stacked up at one side of the infirmary. The stack of furniture was covered in blankets. Caboose was sitting on top of it, wrapped in a blanket and grinning.

"What's up with the stack of furniture?"

"I made a fort. It has blankets," Caboose said cheerfully. "Do you want to sit on it?"

"Wash actually let you build a fort?" Donut looked towards the other side of the infirmary. Wash was sitting at one of the counters (which Caboose probably had been forced to leave behind, given that they were fixed to the floor) and his head was buried in his arms.

"I don't care any more," Wash mumbled into his arms.

"Did you ever?"

"Well, if it was possible to care less... I do."

"He gave me lots and lots of orange juice and he said it would help me go to sleep. It hasn't happened yet," Caboose said, rocking back and forth on top of his fort. "Come on, Cinnamon Bun! We can sit here and we can drink orange juice and... and pretend we are on a pirate ship. And it will be fun!"

"I'm guessing you feel better than you did yesterday."

"Yes. I do. I do not feel shaky any more, and it still really hurts but it is okay because now I have orange juice and you are here. I am just missing Margretta, and then everything... would be awesome."

"Oh, right. I'll bring her up next time I visit."

"God, he's never going to leave if you do that," Wash muttered.

"I'll leave. I can leave now," Caboose insisted. "Church needs protecting from bad men."

"No, no, no. You already tore at your stitches when trying to move the cot. If you run out there and tear your stitches, I'll be the one in trouble."

Caboose pouted and crossed his arms, as Donut clambered onto the fort.

"Ooh. Comfy," Donut said, poking the blankets. "These are a lot nicer than the blankets down in the cells."

"Yes. You cannot make a fort down there. No good blankets and not enough other things." Caboose stretched his arms, and then yelped when he accidentally stretched the stitches. "Ow! Anyways, I have not been able to make a good fort since... since before I left home. Me and my little sisters made a really, really good one. It had garden gnomes and everything."

"That. Sounds. Awesome."

"It was awesome. There was... was garden gnomes. And comfy sofas. And... and... uh..." Caboose blinked and yawned loudly. "There was other things."

"Cool." Donut flopped backwards onto the blankets. Caboose did the same.

"I'm tired again. I only took a nap... not long ago," Caboose mumbled.

"It's fine. You can go to sleep."

"But I do not want to…"

Within a few minutes, however, Caboose was curled up on top of the fort and snoring. When this happened, Wash lifted his head.

"Finally. Those sleeping pills take far too long to work," he said.

"You drugged him?"

"Only a little bit. It's for his own good, really. Just a few sleeping pills in his orange juice. If you drank any of it, then you'll probably fall asleep soon."

Donut frowned, sat up. "I don't like it.”

"The orange juice?"

"No, I meant you drugging people when they annoy you! What the hell, Wash?!"

"Would you prefer me to pepper spray them? All the people I've seen working in the infirmary have done it. There's precedent. Now out, go on."

"Fine. Jerk," Donut muttered under his breath as he got up. "But if you drug his orange juice again, you're answering to me."

He realised he was basically threatening the scariest guard in the prison (sans Tex, but Tex at least didn't give off a murder vibe) after he said it, and took a step back, but Wash didn't reply. Just gave Donut a long, hard stare. Donut decided it was a good time to leave.

Donut found Lopez waiting for him just a little bit outside.

"Hey, Lopez! Haven't seen you around much. How you doing?"

Lopez didn't reply, he just grasped Donut's shoulder and steered him down the walkway.

"Hey, what's going on?"

" _Someone wants to see you._ "

"Someone? Like who? Who wants to see me? Come on, you don't have to be so quiet." Donut squirmed around to try and see Lopez. "Come on, Lopez. You can talk to me. I understand what you say. Well, most of it."

Lopez stayed quiet, eventually reaching out to open a door. He shoved Donut in.

"Whoa. Hey, no shoving. You could just ask—why are we in the laundry closet?"

Lopez shut the door behind him. " _Forgive me. But he was very insistent._ "

"Who's what now?"

"He said I was very excited to have a… chat… with you," said a voice behind Donut. Donut's eyes widened.

"Oh crap."

"Oh crap is right," O'Malley said.

 

* * *

 

O'Malley wanted to grin. Grin and laugh in anticipation for what awaited the pastry. But he just couldn't bring himself to do so. He just wasn't in the mood for laughing. He was still too mad. And looking at Donut just made him angrier.

The spearmint smell was getting on his nerves. It was part of Doc's smell. And it wasn't the only Doc-like quality Donut possessed.

Donut was trying to back away from him, but he just backed into Lopez, who was blocking the door. "Come on, Lopez. Let me out! What are you doing following him around?!"

The bargaining and trying to ask instead of getting his way through violence. The soft hands, especially compared with the inmates and the guards. The normally kind, cheery attitude. And now that Donut was cornered, he was nervous. That nervousness and fear... Just like Doc, no matter how many times O'Malley cornered him in the infirmary.

Of course, there was one thing that could ruin that illusion. When Donut, upon realising Lopez wasn't going to move, chose to instead jump at O'Malley. He wasn't prepared for that. But the blow to the face ruined any illusion that it was Doc standing in front of him.

"You jerk!" Donut shouted, fists waving around wildly. He struck O'Malley a couple more times before his hands latched onto his hair. "This is what you get for hurting Caboose, you... you... assface!" He tugged angrily at O'Malley's hair, trying his best to fight back in his own feminine fashion. And it did hurt a little.

Came to an end quickly when O'Malley pulled a screwdriver out. Donut refused to let go of O'Malley's hair, even when catching sight of it. But a slash at the hands quickly changed his mind. Donut let go, edged back. Holding his hand, trying to stop the gash in it from bleeding.

"You think you can stop me with... with hair-pulling?" O'Malley took a step towards him. "Stupid, stupid pastry. That's not how it works."

Donut took another step back, at the same time reaching to pick up one of the socks lying around the laundry room. Perhaps to stifle the bleeding. O'Malley didn't give him the chance. Instead, he lashed out and hit Donut in the stomach with as much force as he could manage.

"That's not how it works. I'll tell you how it's supposed to work." O'Malley punched Donut again, before gesturing for Lopez to come over, to hold Donut's arms behind his back. Lopez did so, without making a sound. Just quietly twisting Donut's arms behind his back before setting his gaze at the ceiling, so he didn't have to watch.

"Ow-ow-ow! Lopez, come on! I thought we were friends!" Donut whined. He shut up when O'Malley held his screwdriver to his throat.

"You are going to suffer here. As much as I feel like. Then I'm going to take a trophy, and whatever is left of you is going to be left around for someone to find and take to the infirmary," O'Malley hissed. "Whether you die during that process depends on how much you cooperate, pastry."

Donut was shivering with nervousness. But even so, he let out a bitter giggle as he tried to twist out of Lopez's grip.

"Is that so? So if I just lie down and let you chop me to pieces, I'll be fine? Well, you know what? S-screw you!"

"I'm going to pretend I misheard that. Would you like to repeat a more sensible answer?"

" _Don't be an idiot,_ " Lopez whispered.

"I-I said... I said screw you! Stabbing at me and tricking me is one thing. But I draw the line when you hurt my buddies. So you can go stick your head in a gun barrel, O'Malley. Screw you! Screw you too, Lopez! Both of you can go get fucked in the showers, you badly-dressed jerks!"

" _You idiot._ "

O'Malley didn't reply at all. He just gripped the screwdriver tightly and started jamming it into whatever parts of Donut he could reach.

The next few minutes... O'Malley couldn't quite recall them properly. Normally O'Malley would soak in every detail of the violence he performed. But he was half-stuck in his own mind. Thoughts of Doc were bleeding into his thoughts about beating Donut as badly as he could. And if he let those thoughts mix enough... he could almost imagine it was Doc being held there with his arms twisted behind his back.

Soon, that's what O'Malley was seeing. And the anger just came pouring out and nothing in the world could have stopped it. He attacked and slashed and carved Donut up like a Thanksgiving turkey, sometimes taking a break to lash out with his fists and try to smash Donut into a little pulp.

_That's for all the whining and protesting over the years, and that's for drugging me, and that's for messing up my hands, and that's for being a damn pacifist, and... and that's for running off! And that's for forgetting that you belong to me!_

And he wasn't sure if he was screaming in his head or if he was actually saying it out loud. All he could hear was those thoughts and the blood pounding in his own eardrums. Beyond that, he could faintly hear the sounds of pain Doc—Donut—was making, and it filled him with this raw, savage glee. But occasionally he would feel his victim struggling, trying to twist out of Lopez's grip and, once, trying to bite him once O'Malley's hands came into reach. That would shatter the illusion, because Doc never truly fought back, and then he would be beating Donut for shattering the illusion…

And then he stopped. O'Malley couldn't even tell why. He just ran out of rage. He just stopped, and gazed down at the shivering, bleeding, only half-conscious pastry. O'Malley looked down at his own hands. He couldn't remember the last time he just... ran out of violence. He felt tired.

"Do you regret saying that now, pastry?"

Donut coughed. Red came up with it. With what looked like a tremendous effort, he looked up. Blood was dripping down his chin and on to the floor. He glared at O'Malley and then, with what looked like all the energy he had left, he spat in his face.

Lopez shook his head with a sigh, his eyes still firmly fixed on the ceiling. O'Malley wiped the blood off his face before twirling the screwdriver in his hands. "Hm. Perhaps you'll regret it once I've taken my trophy. If you live long enough to.

"So, tell me, little pastry. Which ear would you prefer to keep?"

 

* * *

 

"Oh... shit."

There were many things that no guard, including York, wanted to see while patrolling the prison. Any form of violence or sexually frustrated inmates going at it in their cells (either with another inmate or alone, either way was awkward) were examples. But finding a heavily bleeding body bundled up in a corner of the laundry closet... that was one of the worse things York had seen in this prison.

"Jesus," York muttered, flicking the lights on and trying to see if the body—oh god, was that Donut?—was still moving. "Donut? Can you hear me?"

Donut didn't move, even when York prodded him with his foot. Didn't move when York turned him over, either. His hair was almost completely drenched in red and his face was chalk white underneath all the blood. York checked his wrist. There was a pulse. A weak one, but it was there.

"Hey! Donut! Can you hear me? Come on, rise and shine." York turned Donut's head a little. Most of the blood was coming from the left side of his head, although he was bleeding badly from the mouth and several other places around the torso and arms. "God, this is fucked. Can you hear me? Donut?"

There was no movement. But there was a tiny whimper. York grabbed one of the jumpsuit jackets he had dropped, pressed it to the side of Donut's head.

"Okay... okay, you're not dead... yet... Alright." York scooped up Donut in his arms and ran for the infirmary.

 

* * *

 

Everything was really bright. Just white light. Donut felt like he was floating.

_Am I dead? I must be dead. That would explain the flying sensation. Does this mean I didn't go to Hell? Awesome._

Floating was actually quite a nice feeling. Although the nice feeling was ruined by the overwhelming feeling of pain. Pain everywhere.

_I probably did go to Hell. Dead people don't feel pain unless they're in Hell. Probably payback for Maine._

Donut tried to move, but all he could manage to do was twitch a bit, and even that doubled the pain. He whined a little. His throat felt clogged, and when he whined it felt kind of bubbly. Not in a pleasant way.

"Just hang in there, Donut, we're nearly there…"

Who was that? He realised that hands were supporting him. It felt like he was being cradled by someone. Kind of nice. So he wasn't flying after all, someone was just carrying him. ...Was the guy who was carrying him flying?

_Hm. So I'm being carried by an angel? Cool._

"Do I get wings?" Donut tried to ask. He choked on the words, though. The liquid that was filling his mouth made it hard to talk.

_I hope Heaven has painkillers._

There was a slamming noise, and Donut felt himself rock slightly. Everything got brighter. Donut hadn't thought it was possible, but it had. It hurt his eyes.

"Wash, we need an ambulance! Right now!"

"York? What happened?"

"Can't you tell from the body I'm holding?! There was an attack! Ambulance. Now."

"Okay. Put him down. Call the ambulance, I'll try and stop the bleeding."

There was a strange scraping noise and then Donut landed on something soft. Clouds. Probably clouds. Clouds always looked really soft. One of Donut's only memories before the orphanage was being on a plane. He'd only been two or three, it couldn't have been older than that. All he could remember was the clouds. They were fluffy and soft-looking, and someone—maybe his original mother—had said they were angel beds.

"He's bleeding too much. I don't even know where to start with the stitches. When's the ambulance coming?"

"I'm checking, I'm checking! Sarge is going to be furious that we didn't ask, but—"

"No time. We'll just tell him later. Donut's a Red, he'll be fine with it."

_There's a sergeant up here, too? Man, Heaven is sounding a lot more different than I thought. Wait. The voice. I've heard these voices before._

Everything was still far too bright. If Donut opened his eyes just a little (but they were so, so heavy) he could see a dark shape above him.

"I think he's awake. Can you hear me, Donut?"

"Wash? You're an angel?" Donut mumbled. Although it came out more like 'wahyurgel?'

"I'll take that as a yes." Donut saw the dark shape shift a bit, and felt pressure put on his stomach. The brightness was becoming less intense, and his vision was getting dark around the edges. "I doubt it will make you feel much better, but I don't intend to let you die yet."

_Aren't I already dead?_

"Just try to stay awake."

_But... I'm so tired..._

"Come on, stay with me. They'll be time for napping later."

"The ambulance will be here in fifteen."

_So tired... and this cloud is so soft…_

"Fifteen is too long. He looks almost dead already."

"What do you want me to do, fast forward time around the ambulance?"

"No! Just help me stop the bleeding! Donut! I said stay awake! Don't you even think about it.”

_Just a short nap…_

"Don't you die on me. You're not allowed to! Not after... not after what you did... You can't die until I say you can!"

_Just a..._

 

* * *

 

"You probably shouldn't be carrying that around," Wyoming said conversationally. "A guard might ask to see. I'm sure you're proud of your handiwork, old chap, but the artistic qualities would be lost on them."

O'Malley turned the rolled up sock over in his hand. He was keeping his trophy inside it. He was seated on the ground, scowling at his wrapped-up prize. "I just realised something."

"Oh?"

"I was going to show this to Doc. But I have no way to do so. Not until I can find an escape. And by then, it would have probably wasted away," O'Malley muttered.

"Perhaps I could help with that. I can supply you with various items that would help you escape. Or I could find a method of sending your trophy to him. But I very much doubt you have his home address."

O'Malley crossed his arms and continued scowling. "Unless you have a method of escape that is quick, then none of your supplies will be useful at the moment."

Wyoming took a puff of his cigarette, blowing out smoke rings. "I know more about this prison than most of the staff does, my friend. But without outside influence, I have no quick method of escape. I would have left long ago, if I did." Another smoke ring went floating over the yard. "However. I do have something useful that might help." Wyoming reached into his jacket, showed O'Malley what he was hiding.

"Where did you get that?" O'Malley's eyes were focused on the small, purple object that Wyoming was holding.

"It belongs to North Dakota. I may have had one of the pickpocketing inmates swipe it from his pocket." Wyoming turned the purple mobile phone over in his hands, before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. "If you have any outside contacts and don't want your call monitored… and I'm led to believe such phones have a camera function on them?"

"...Yes. Yes, it could work." A small smile flickered over O'Malley's face. "What's the catch, then? There's always a catch."

"The catch?" Wyoming scratched his chin. "Well, I'd be quite interested if you found a method of escape. I've been in prison a very long time. But otherwise... If I'm perfectly honest, I haven't the faintest idea on how to operate it." Wyoming dropped his cigarette, stepping on it and crushing what was left. "Mobile phones were not common back when I was out there. So I have no use for it. Although I still wish to sell it to someone. So, you can either buy it... Although the price will be quite high, due to the nature of this contraband... Or you can borrow it for, shall we say, a day?" Wyoming searched through his pockets for another cigarette. "Long enough for you to make the call to your missing pet."

O'Malley considered it for about a second. "Deal. Hand it over."

"If I don't get it back…"

"Yes, nasty consequences. I'm aware of your rules, Wyoming."

"Glad to hear it. Explaining the rules of the trade does get rather tiresome." After handing the mobile phone to O'Malley, Wyoming lit his cigarette, gazing above the grey walls. He saw flashing lights. "Ah. The ambulance."

O'Malley looked at the lights as he hid the phone in his pocket. His mood was lifted. He could appreciate the bloody mess he had made of Donut, now. He felt much better about the whole Doc thing. He was making progress on it. He'd have Doc back soon enough. He was sure of it.

For the first time since Doc had run, he let a proper maniacal grin cross his face.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, check it. Ambulance lights," Tucker said, nodding at the red and blue lights that were visible beyond the walls.

"Hm?" Church looked up briefly. "Yeah, don't care as long as it's not one of us. Can you just shuffle the fucking deck already?"

"Alright, man. Although if there was a major beating, we can find out who did it and blackmail the hell out of them," Tucker said cheerfully.

"Yeah. Unless the attacker was someone who doesn't give a shit about being blackmailed." Church looked around the yard again, as Tucker shuffled the deck in a needlessly dramatic fashion. Said that shuffling the cards in a fancy way looked more snappy.

He spotted O'Malley sitting next to Wyoming. Grinning. That wasn't any different than usual. However... he was holding a rolled-up sock.

That immediately set off Church's inner alarm. Just because it was so out of place to be carrying around rolled-up socks. But socks would be a nice place to keep something small that he didn't want to be seen...And O'Malley liked trophies. Church remembered some of O'Malley's activities on the outside. He'd witnessed O'Malley removing body parts... usually ears or fingers. Occasionally teeth. Sometimes eyes if he had enough time to run home and preserve them. Even seen a little shoebox that O'Malley had kept preserved body parts in.

Church looked around the yard once more. Trying to single out familiar faces. Tucker was right next to him, of course. Tex was patrolling the yard. Caboose would still be in the infirmary. Grif and Simmons were in the shoe.

Donut was missing.

"Where's Dye-Job?"

"He said something about visiting Caboose. I don't fucking know, I'm not a babysitter."

Ambulance. Rolled-up sock. Missing Donut. Two and two... plus two.

"Shit. I have to check something," Church muttered.

"Again? Can I come? I don't want to be stuck out here by myself. It'll be so boring," Tucker complained.

"No. Stay near the guards. Stick near Tex. Don't. Leave. Their. Sight." Church stressed each word of his last sentence, before running back towards the prison.

He didn't reach the infirmary. He found York, instead. Walking along, head down and trying to rub the blood off his hands. He didn't even notice Church until he stopped in front of him.

"Hey, uh. York?"

"Yeah? What's going on, snitch?"

"Don't call me that, I'm not a fucking snitch! And that's beside the point. Did Dye-Job—I mean, Donut—come through here?"

"Oh, yeah. That. I did carry him through here, and he was just wheeled out by the guys that came with the ambulance. So, guess he passed through here. He just wasn't using his legs." York stopped wiping off his hands and focused on Church properly. "You're, uh... friends with him, right? Think I saw you sitting at the same table."

"Nah, he's a dick. But, uh..." Church crossed his arms. "Can I ask how he was hurt?"

York considered it for a moment before shrugging. "You'd find out anyway, right? Can't hurt to say. Found him in the laundry room, beaten and sliced up to within an inch of his life. Missing an ear, too. Truth be told, not sure he was alive when they wheeled him out, sure didn't look it. But we don't know who did it. That answer things?"

"...Kinda. Okay, thanks for that. I guess."

"No problem, snitch."

"For the last time—ah, fuck it."

Church turned around and started walking right back to the yard. Well, York saved him half a walk to the infirmary, at least. It probably would have been a lot harder to get answers out of Wash. He was such a secretive bastard... plus, there was a lot of bad blood there. Even if Wash wasn't aware of it.

When Church reached the yard again, he found Tucker rubbing his nose.

"Tex hit me," Tucker sighed.

"Dammit, can't you go five seconds without hitting on anything slightly female?" Church snapped.

"Oh, you know the answer to that is a 'hell no.'" Tucker pointed at Church. "And don't play the ex-girlfriend card, you know I'm not violating the 'stay away from exes' rule unless I get to at least second base."

"Second base? That doesn't seem right. Anyway, I need to talk to someone else."

"Dude! Can you at least tell me what's going on?"

"Later. I gotta tell Tex something before O'Malley leaves the yard."

"Alright, alright. Jeez. I'll just go and talk to... I dunno, that flag-worshipping guy... and hope he doesn't attack me for being 'the antithesis of Red' again. Crazy bastard. But it's better than getting hit by Tex again. Less potentially lethal.”

"Right, okay. Just stay in the fucking yard."

"What are you, my mother?

 

* * *

 

The first words that were out of Simmons' mouth, post-sex, were "I need a fucking toothbrush."

"And I need some cigarettes. But we can't have everything, can we?" Grif said, grinning at Simmons. Simmons rolled his eyes before snuggling deeper into Grif, resting his head against the crook between Grif's neck and shoulder.

"You don't need more cigarettes. You taste enough like cigarette smoke and old alcohol as it is. It's disgusting."

"Oh, you're being picky." Grif yawned loudly, before saying, "When do you think they'll let us out?"

"For fighting and drinking? Probably not for a few days."

"Awesome. That's like a fucking holiday. Just you, me and a really crappy mattress. Plus making the occasional guard really uncomfortable."

Simmons went slightly pink. "Yeah. Good times, mostly."

For the longest time, they just lay there. Grif was nodding off to sleep before Simmons spoke.

"Grif?"

"Yeah?"

There was a pause. "I still don't regret being here. I mean, I do, but... I don't regret... y'know? Sticking with you? You know that, right?"

Grif buried his face in Simmons' hair and grasped his hand, interlacing their fingers together. "Of course I fucking know that. But... guess it's nice to hear you haven't changed your mind about it. Or whatever. Thanks, man."

Simmons hummed contently. "No problem."

"Hey, Simmons?"

"Yeah?"

"Who do you think would win in a fight? Batman or the Flash?”

 

* * *

 

"Chopping off body parts? ...Why the hell?"

"Do you have to ask, Tex? He's a fucking madman! Why wouldn't he? Besides, you know the kind of crap they found in his house when he got locked up, right? Shoe box full of preserved 'trophies?' He's fucking nuts."

Tex was keeping a watch over the yard, her arms crossed. Church stood next to her, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. Significantly more agitated.

"Yeah, I know that.” Tex looked sideways at Church. “You know he'll know you told me, right?”

“Probably. But who the fuck cares? He hates me anyway, it doesn't make a difference.”

“What if someone asks how you guessed O'Malley's habits so easy? Working with him never came up during your interrogation, did it? Do you want that all to be reopened? What if he says something about—”

“He won't, if he hasn't already. It's not gonna get him anything else to stab. Just don't mention me.”

Tex stared at O'Malley for a moment before shrugging. “Alright. Not like I need a reason to check him. O'Malley's usually up to something.”

"Alright."

Church sat down to watch as Tex approached O'Malley, who was now sitting by himself. Wyoming had moved across the yard, and was now bartering with inmates, trading cigarettes for coffee supplies. Church couldn't hear the conversation, but he saw O'Malley leer, turning the rolled-up sock over in his hands.

The next minute mostly consisted of Tex trying to get O'Malley to hand over the sock. Eventually, she tugged it from his hands. O'Malley gave it up far too easily. Church saw Tex unravel the sock and peer inside, before throwing it back at O'Malley and motioning for him to stand up.

Tex then searched O'Malley properly. Which always made Church grit his teeth. Sure, Tex was being professional about having to feel down O'Malley's pant legs. But that grin on O'Malley's face... At one point, O'Malley said something. Church didn't know what it was, but the reaction from Tex was clearly a threat. Afterwards, she stormed back towards Church.

"Clean."

"Clean? No fucking way."

Tex shrugged. "Didn't have anything on him. I checked."

"Yeah, I saw."

"Why would he be keeping a body part in a rolled-up sock, anyway? It's so obvious. Would have bled through, anyway." Tex crossed her arms, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Very specific place, Church."

"Don't look at me like that. When have I ever lied to you?"

"The first time we met. You said your last name was Kirk and that you worked as a delivery man."

"Well, the delivery part was sometimes true. In a manner of speaking.”

 

* * *

 

"Why can't I put the cot back with the rest of the fort?" Caboose asked.

"I told you. We need at least one cot for other patients," Wash said. He had returned to using the counter as a headrest.

"People can share the fort. It is much more comfortable."

"Not everyone appreciates forts."

"Yes, they do."

Wash wondered if it would be worth using up the rest of the sleeping pills to keep Caboose quiet. It was pointless arguing, in any case. Drilling through Caboose's logic was nigh impossible, the kid simply could not understand the concept of someone hating a fort. But... the sleeping pills would probably be more useful later on, if Donut survived long enough to get transferred back to the infirmary.

"Is it tomorrow, yet?"

"Technically, it's always today. Do you mean since you were last awake? Because it's still the same day."

"Oh. I was hoping it was tomorrow. Then Donut would come and see me. And he said he was going to bring Margretta and read stories to me."

Wash kept his eyes away from Caboose. "Well... You'll just have to wait and see if he shows up tomorrow."

He didn't want the kid freaking out on him. That had the potential to be dangerous.

Caboose frowned, settled back on the fort, hugging his pillow tightly as a substitute for his soft toy. "Mister Washingtub?"

"What?"

"Why does the room smell like... like when people get hurt?"

...What a sense of smell.

"That's because... when you were asleep, someone came into the infirmary and tripped. That's what the smell is from."

"It must have been a very painful trip."

"Yes. Yes, it was.”

 

* * *

 

"I told you that carrying your trophy around was a bad idea, chum. If you hadn't seen Church trying to squeal on your activities…"

O'Malley had wandered back to Wyoming once Tex had traded shifts with North. Church had since vanished as well, along with his little con-artist henchman. O'Malley sat back down next to Wyoming.

"It turned out fine, didn't it?" He held out his hand. Wyoming handed back the rolled-up sock that really did have the ear inside it. "I suppose I owe you one for carrying it for me."

"Throw a packet of cigarettes my way in the next week and I'll consider us even." Wyoming made sure North wasn't watching before handing O'Malley the phone. "One night."

"That's all I need." O'Malley grinned down at the phone before pocketing it. "After that, it won't matter.”

"Do you think the doctor is going to run back here because you simply asked him?"

"No, I don't. But he won't run forever." O'Malley grinned. "He can't bear to see other people hurt, especially if he thinks it's his fault. He'll come back one way or another. Even if I have to drag him back in person. He'll come back."

"Hm. You and your hobbies. I suppose one must stay entertained somehow.”

 

* * *

 

Back in his cell, O'Malley dialed the number. The phone rang three times. On the fourth ring, Doc answered.

"Hello?"

"I suppose it's not correct to call you 'Doc' any more, is it?"

There was a long, drawn out pause. O'Malley held the mobile to his ear, but all he could hear was breathing. Very shaky breathing.

"Actually, I don't think calling you 'Doc' was ever correct. But that is neither here or there, is it?" O'Malley continued, smiling widely.

"No. No, no, no. This shouldn't... shouldn't be happening," Doc whimpered. "How…"

O'Malley grinned, settled back on his cot. "Shouldn't be happening. But yet it is. ...Lovely purple pajamas, by the way." He heard Doc yelp and loud footsteps, before hearing a swishing noise that sounded a lot like curtains being shoved open. O'Malley laughed quietly. "You have nothing to worry about. I can't see you. I'm still all locked up."

"How'd you... know my pajamas were purple?"

"I've seen you walk into the infirmary in your pajamas before. You just put a jacket over them during late-night calls."

There was more silence, before Doc whispered, "How did you find me? How did you get my number?"

O'Malley smiled. "You remember when I stole your keys? There was a little purple tag on your set of keys. It had your number on there. Not very clever, Doc, to write down your number inside a prison. I carved it on the wall for future reference. I am rather prone to forgetting things, after the... mishaps with the pills." O'Malley touched the wall just beside his cot, where he had carved Doc's phone number, his fingers tracing the outlines. "But once again, we're getting distracted from the subject."

"T-There's nothing to talk about."

"Yes, there is. Come back."

"No. No, I... I can't."

"Doc, Doc, Doc. Did I phrase that like you had a choice in the matter? You're not allowed to just leave. How many times have I told you that?"

"I don't care, I... I did too much harm, there. And... And I'm not going back."

"Is that the only reason you're staying away?"

"No, you... I'm... I'm staying away from you…"

"Are you? Then why haven't you hung up, yet?"

"That... would be rude," Doc said faintly.

O'Malley chuckled. "Oh, yes. It would be. But it's no more so than running away and leaving me here. That's not how it works. Incidentally, I have something to show you that might change your mind."

"What? You... How can you…"

"Just give me a second."

O'Malley carefully unwrapped the sock, tugged out Donut's severed ear. It had long since bled out what little blood it had, and was now a rather fascinating colour. After a few moments of fiddling around with the mobile phone, O'Malley managed to snap a picture.

"I wanted to present you with this personally, but that's obviously not possible at the moment," O'Malley said, just before sending the picture.

There was a few moments of silence. And then Doc screamed, and O'Malley heard a clatter.

"Drop the phone, did you? I would have thought you'd be used to seeing blood in your profession!" O'Malley cackled, loud enough so Doc could still hear him, even if he'd dropped the phone. He heard movement, and then Doc screaming at him.

"Whose ear is that?! What are you doing?! Are you completely insane?! How... what... aaaaagh!" Doc devolved into just a mass of hysteria for the next few minutes. O'Malley just grinned and listened peacefully, in much the same manner that one would listen to a relaxing lullaby. When Doc finally stopped screaming, O'Malley continued.

"In answer to the three legible questions I heard... One. That ear formerly belonged to one Franklin Delano Donut. Possibly dead, possibly just very hurt. I don't know. Two. I'm giving you a small taste of what will happen if you don't return. And three... I think you know the answer to that, Doc."

"What will... I don't understand... I d-don't…"

"Oh. I think you do." O'Malley lowered his voice. "You don't think I'll stop at just an ear, do you? For every week you stay away from this place, someone gets hurt. Not just a scraped knee or a black eye. Hurt irreversibly. Perhaps I might even indulge in some good old-fashioned murder. It has been a long time. The longer you stay away, the more people hurt. The more people die. You know I can do it. You just saw that ear. You've seen York's bad eye. Now, that was for shits and giggles. What do you think I'll do when I actually have... motivation?"

"No... Please, O'Malley... P-Please don't…"

"It's too late." O'Malley's voice got harsher as he went on. "You shouldn't have left, Doc. You made me very, very upset. You. Hurt. Me. I'm just repaying the favour. Whatever happens to the pastry, and whatever happens to the others... It's on your hands. Until you end it, it's on your hands!"

O'Malley went silent, waiting for a response. Then he heard breathing. Muffled, wet breathing…

"I can't... I can't go back! I just... I-I can't..." Doc sobbed. "I can't go back, don't make me go back... I can't... I can't... I'm sorry, I can't... I'm sorry... I'm sorry…"

O'Malley held the phone to his ear, listening to Doc break down with a blank face. He wondered how badly he'd broken his toy. He'd clearly done more than just scratch the paint job.

"You should be sorry, Doc. It's your fault," O'Malley whispered. "I'm going to hang up now. If you're not back in a week, you'll have much more to be sorry for.”

He snapped the phone shut on Doc's wailing before slipping the phone into his pocket. It wasn't too long before curfew. Returning the phone now would probably be wise, in case the attack on Donut had made anyone suspicious.

And he needed to pass on the trophy.

 

* * *

 

"I have something for you."

Church had been reading (and not absorbing a word of it) when he heard O'Malley's voice. Immediately he jumped off the cot and sprung to his feet, holding the book in front of him as it was the closest thing to a weapon he had in his cell.

"Get the fuck out, O'Malley," Church growled.

"Now, that's just rude. I'm simply here to give you something." O'Malley pulled the rolled-up sock out of his jacket, tossed it unceremoniously at Church. Church didn't reach down to grab it, although he could see traces of blood staining the grey fabric. His stomach turned just looking at it.

"You sick fuck. I fucking knew it."

"Forgive me if I thought you would want the missing piece of your little pastry back. I was just attempting to be nice."

"Nice? Nice?! That word doesn't exist in your dictionary, now fuck off!"

"Not so fast." O'Malley grinned, clasped his hands together. "I'm here to negotiate. Giving back your pastry portion was a side thing. A sign of good faith, if you will. I require your help with something, and I think it's in your best interest to help me."

"Fuck off."

"You don't even want to hear it?" O'Malley frowned slightly. "Don't you want to leave this prison?"

"Escape?" Church laughed bitterly. "You want to escape? Can't be fucking done. I don't know why you'd think I'd be able to. But I don't have that magical secret. And if I did, then I wouldn't tell you. So there's no point in talking about it."

"Perhaps not on our own. But you... You could still connect someone on the outside who could help. One of your old henchmen, perhaps. I'm sure Delta would still listen to you. Epsilon certainly would. I'm sure he'd be happy to see you again."

"Shut. The fuck up. About Epsilon," Church growled, through gritted teeth.

O'Malley's grin reappeared on his face. "Don't you want to see little Eddie? Don't you miss him? Or don't you care about him anymore?"

"I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Church jumped forward and smacked O'Malley square in the face with the book he'd been holding, before dropping it and slamming O'Malley against the wall. Before he could act on any other violent instincts, he felt something against his throat.

"Do you really want to do that? Because I've wanted to slice your throat out for years," O'Malley said softly, his grin stretching so wide that Church thought it was going to split his face into two. "Twenty-five years, to be precise." His fingers drummed against the sharp screwdriver he had to Church's throat. He pressed it closer, forcing Church to back away a couple of steps. O'Malley moved forward, keeping the screwdriver at his throat. "I might not even need to escape if all goes well, but if it doesn't... Then I'd like to have something prepared. And your help would make it go so much smoother.”

"I don't care if you slice my throat open right now. I'm not helping you, asswipe!"

"Be that way, Church. Be that way if you truly want to. But it might have some nasty consequences, especially for your dear little meringue." O'Malley moved the screwdriver along Church's throat, before moving it further upwards, grazing the side of his face. Perhaps unintentionally due to the shaking, he pressed it a bit too hard to Church's face, drawing just a little bit of blood. "Although it would be a shame to damage that pretty face of his."

"That's why you hurt Donut? Jesus Christ, you're fucking sick."

"Well, no. That was a matter of principle..." O'Malley moved the screwdriver back towards Church's throat. "Think about it, Church. No more grey walls, no more of the same meals over and over. Freedom, Church. You've already gone fifteen years, and I heard you went a bit mad after just the fifth year."

Church didn't answer, he just tried to keep his face impassive.

"And the company you keep. Do you really think that idiot will always be around to protect you? Any shield can only deflect so many blows before it shatters. One day they'll be an attack that's just too much for him and he'll be gone. That con-artist... Do you really think he feels anything close to loyalty? He's a con-artist, he makes his living off lying. As soon as a better deal comes along, he will leave you behind. And your sweet, little meringue? He won't be here forever. As well-behaved as he is, he's practically guaranteed parole when it comes up. He will take that parole and never look back. None of them will be here forever. And you will. Eventually... you'll be left all alone again."

Church still tried to keep his face blank. Even though O'Malley had just tapped into a fear that came into his mind every day. Even if he'd gotten some of the people within muddled.

He didn't worry about Tucker's loyalty. Tucker knew shit about Church that he'd never spilled. But he knew all too well that Tucker wouldn't always be there. That better deal... That better deal was Tucker's family. If Tucker got the chance to be with his son, he would leave Church behind for it. Church had no illusions about that. And Church remembered the days before Tucker. They'd been empty. Lonely. Even Tex's presence in the prison didn't do much about that. Too much awkwardness between them.

He'd tried to keep his face blank. But a flicker of uncertainty and fear escaped across his face, not even for a second. O'Malley started laughing again."I know you, Church. I know what you fear. And if you stay here, then what you fear will come to pass."

For one moment... For that one moment, Church wanted to agree. Say yes to whatever ridiculous escape plan O'Malley had made up. Even though he knew... He knew how much trouble it would cause. He knew that O'Malley was delusional. There was no way he could contact Delta for help. There was no way he would contact Eddie, even if he could. But for that moment, Church didn't care. He wanted to agree, and it took everything he had not to say anything at all.

"So little to lose... And so much more to gain. And if you don't listen to me, you'll lose it all. Just a simple yes, Church. A simple yes is all you need to—"

And then O'Malley abruptly stopped talking and froze. So did Church. Because suddenly there was a shiv at O'Malley's throat.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out," Tucker growled from behind O'Malley, pressing the shiv to O'Malley's throat, close enough so that a drop of blood leaked out and dripped down O'Malley's neck. Tucker's eyes were narrowed, he looked uncharacteristically serious and his grip on the shiv was a lot steadier than O'Malley's.

"I guess that settles it for now," O'Malley sighed. "Pity. I was so sure you were about to crack..." He lowered his screwdriver. Tucker kept his shiv where it was.

"I could slit his throat right now," Tucker muttered. "Tex would never have to know."

"Yeah, because the bleeding corpse on the floor of my cell wouldn't be a tipoff at all," Church muttered, ashamed when his voice shook slightly. Tucker stepped backwards, forcing O'Malley to move out of the cell with him, and only removed the shiv once O'Malley was completely out. Tucker moved around, standing in front of O'Malley, before giving O'Malley a sharp shove away from the cell.

"Stay away from us. Church might insist on not killing people, but I don't go by those rules," Tucker hissed. "You stay the fuck away."

O'Malley grinned lazily, twirling his own screwdriver with his hands. "I believe I won the last time it came to that, didn't I?" His eyes moved over the scar across Tucker's face before he looked back to Church. "If that's the way you're going to play it... It's your funeral. Well... Maybe not yours, exactly."

As O'Malley left, he kept giggling to himself.

Tucker only lowered the shiv when he was gone.

"Well, that was fucked up," he said, stepping back into Church's cell. Already, he'd switched back to his normal lazy grin so quickly that it threw Church off a bit. "You alright?"

Church didn't answer. He was just tracing his fingers along where the screwdriver had scraped him, looking troubled. Wondering if he'd made the right choice.

"Church?"

"What?" Church looked up. "Oh. Right. Yeah. Fine. Fine. Good. Fine." He sat down on his cot. "Good. Fine. Fine. Good. Good."

"You're freaking me out a little."

"Jesus." Church ran his fingers nervously through his hair, before looking back at Tucker. "I... owe you one, I guess."

"Nah. It's part payback for not being an asshole about the Junior thing. Besides... What was I supposed to do? You and me, we're like..." Tucker struggled for an analogy for a moment. "Like wingmen. Except instead of picking up chicks, we're stopping each other from getting stabbed."

"Right." Church's eyes moved down to the shiv Tucker was holding. "Why the fuck are you carrying that around?"

"I've had it for years. I got it around the time you were stuck in the shoe years ago, because I thought Caboose was going to try and make me 'fall over.' Sorry it took me so long to grab, I couldn't remember where I hid it."

"It's fine... So, you heard all of that?"

"My cell is right there, of course I did." Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Though, seriously? Was he implying what I thought he was implying about you and Dye-Job? I thought you had much better taste than that."

"Of course I have better fucking taste than that," Church snapped defensively. "Dye-Job is far too... sugary."

"Really." It was amazing how much sarcasm Tucker could fit into those two syllables. "Which is why you ran off to the infirmary as soon as you figured out Donut was hurt. Or why you gave him protection ages ago. God, you really were paying him for 'health benefits.'" Tucker paused for a moment, then under his breath muttered, "Bow chicka bow wow."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're blowing this way out of proportion. I told you, Donut was blackmailing me!"

"With what?"

"That's... that's not important right now!" Church yelled.

Tucker grinned slyly at him. "Oh, yes it is. Well, guess your taste never was brilliant. You dated Tex, after all…"

"Hey!"

"But okay. Whatever floats your boat. I mean, it's weird as fuck. But okay."

"Goddammit.”


	6. Flashback Five - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the fifth flashback out of eight, continued on from the flashbacks shown in Volume 1. This part only contain's Church's past.
> 
> In which Church spends five years working for Delta, learns a lot, meets some weird people and gets pulled in even deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some extra, completely new scenes were added because I always kind of wanted to add them, but when Church's part was included with the others it added pressure to at least make sure Church's portion didn't completely eclipse the others. Now that it's been separated, I have more freedom.
> 
> I fucked up the timeline for the sake of one largely pointless scene. Worth it. (Also someone may have picked up a little influence from a particular character in Fallout 4. You may pick up who if you've played it.)

**Church**

 

Delta had a lot of jobs available, and a lot of them involved life-threatening situations.

Not all of them. Sometimes there were less dangerous, more about avoiding getting caught than avoiding death. Church picked up a shitload of weird skills as time went on. He was often given the role of stealing shit, whenever that was necessary, and the definition of 'shit' was quite wide. Cars were common. He did a lot of transporting goods which were probably illegal, although he rarely looked inside the boxes. He picked up bits and pieces of forging. Delta seemed to need a lot of stuff done, and also seemed to have very few constant people to do it with, just random helpers that Church rarely saw again.

Those sort of jobs, Church actually didn't mind all that much. At least they were relatively safe. But there were always jobs that were subject to violence. Sometimes shit needed to be broken so someone else would know they shouldn't do that thing that Delta doesn't like. Sometimes buildings had to burn down (although that was really more Sigma's thing than Church's) and sometimes the people who owned that building didn't like that. Sometimes ambushes happened during smuggling jobs that should have been friendly.

Point was, violence happened. If Church was by himself, that often meant running. They'd given him a gun, but he hadn't figured out the intricacies of aiming yet. He was better at running. Other times, he was with other people. Often, that other person was Sigma. Church supposed that was a good thing. Sigma knew how to fire a gun. On the other hand, Sigma was a significantly creepy man who Church disliked.

"When are they going to get here?" Church grumbled, slumped in the passenger seat of the van. Today it wasn't a lethal job, or at least it wasn't supposed to be. Just some kind of deal, where they traded a bag of something for a bag of something else. Church didn't know the details this time around. He was just there for 'muscle.' What a joke.

"Soon." Sigma, as always, was much more at ease. He was sketching in a pad of paper that he often brought along to any job that required a lot of waiting. At the present, he was doodling the rough outline of a man with his hands behind his back.

"So, we're not killing anyone today, right?"

"Provided that this deal goes the way it should, yes. If it doesn't, then we shoot them."

"Hooray," Church muttered.

"Does it really matter to you? I've been watching." Sigma glanced sideways at him. "You hold back. When we're doing missions together, and something goes wrong, I'm always the one actually shooting them. Even that time when you were cornered."

"Hey, that time I was actually trying," Church said defensively. A couple of jobs ago, he'd been cornered by one of the men who'd taken extreme offence to the prices of the smuggled goods. First time Church had actually tried using a gun properly. Entire clip of bullets. Point blank range. Not one of them hit.

"So you admit you weren't trying beforehand."

"Was too."

"No need to get defensive, Leonard. I'm trying to talk you through it. You'll have to shoot someone, eventually. I don't understand why you find it so difficult. You've killed before.”

"Yeah, because I had to." He hadn't been able to shoot until the guy had him cornered. He had only been able to kill Jimmy because he was going to die anyway. He'd only been able to slash his father's throat because he had to stop him from harming Eddie. But when it was just random people who Delta sent them after, Church couldn't do it until he was actually in danger. "Killing random people sucks.”

"You don't have to like it. You just have to do it." Sigma shrugged. "It's just part of the job."

"Yeah, I know." Under his breath, Church muttered, "Fucking Delta."

"Don't be too hard on him."

"Don't be too hard on him? He's running a network of criminals and he's fucking nineteen! Nineteen-year-olds should not be fucking criminal masterminds!"

Sigma smiled slightly. "Yeah, he gets that reaction. But it's an odd situation. Started as a family business. His father was always insistent that Delta and Theta be involved in it. Taught them how to hack. How to shoot. About all the links to the criminal world that he knew of."

"Well. That's kinda fucked up."

"Didn't say it was normal."

Sigma flipped a page of his sketchbook. He started sketching a picture of four people, and as he added in details, Church recognised it as the family from the photos in Delta's home. Father, mother, Delta, Theta.

“Delta's father… he treated them like soldiers rather than children. Their mother never protested outwardly. I think, perhaps, she was frightened. Sometimes she would ask me to babysit them and take them somewhere that children would enjoy, and not to tell their father."

Sigma sketched in Delta's features. "Once I took them to a theme park. Delta spent the entire time studying the area for all the good hiding places and escape routes." He sketched in Theta's features. "Theta showed an unhealthy fixation on any target-shooting games and tried to tell the people running them in detail about which firearms would be much steadier and effective against short-range targets. ...They were ten and six at the time."

"That's just... weird." Church pushed his car seat back a little so he could prop his feet up. "So, why the fuck's Delta running all this instead of his old man?"

Sigma stayed quiet for so long afterwards that Church thought he was ignoring the question. It was only a couple of minutes later, while Church was absently picking at his fingernails that Sigma replied, "That would be because of the Director."

"Who the fuck's the Director, anyway?"

"Kingpin of a very large criminal syndicate that sprawls out across the country. This city is one of his hubs. He doesn't like it when people interfere with his business. So, naturally, he was not a fan of any other criminals that tried to make it big without his permission, like Delta's father.

"So, he spent a while hunting any members of the organization down that he could. He didn't have much luck for a long time."

“Who'd he try to chase down?”

“No-one you've met. This was back when we had more consistent members, rather than whoever Delta could locate and contact via the internet.”

"What happened to them?"

"Most of them are dead. Some fled the city. There are a couple who still linger. Gamma and Meta still live in the city. I keep in contact with Meta quite regularly, but officially he's no longer a part of our organization. Gamma isn't interested given the comparative lack of profit right now, although I'm sure he could be persuaded to rejoin our syndicate.”

"You can't really call it a syndicate, Sigma. It's just you, me, a guy who's mentally five and a douchebag at a computer," Church grumbled, still picking at his nails.

"Be that as it may, it isn't the point of this story. The Director eventually caught one of us. That's what we've always assumed, at any rate. One of us vanished, and soon after... they knew where we all were.

"First I knew of any of it was when the Director's men turned up at my apartment. I managed to escape, and then I went to Delta's home as fast as I could. Found the parents dead, still curled up in bed. Didn't look like they'd ever been woken up. Took me a full hour to find Delta and Theta. They were very well concealed in the basement. Had a panic room and everything. Apparently, Delta had been awake—never did like sleeping—and had smuggled him and Theta down there as soon as he heard noise." Sigma sighed. "Their father had run them through the procedure for 'strange men breaking into the house' a million times. I suppose that part of their training was worthwhile, after all."

Sigma flipped a page over and started a new drawing in his sketchbook. "That was about three years ago. I took them in for a while, but Delta was insistent on continuing with everything his father had taught him. Of course, the Director went about killing anyone with a connection to the group, and anyone who was sane fled or hid. So, by the time Delta was ready to start the business up again, there was only him, Theta and me. No-one else wanted anything to do with it."

There was silence for a little while. Church sat there, squinting a little as he thought about it, before blurting out, "What the fuck?"

"Hm?"

"Why the fuck would Delta willingly go back to that kind of shit? 'Oh, my father was a controlling dickbag who thought we were soldiers and now he's dead because he pissed off people while doing his criminal shit. I know! I'll do the exact same fucking thing!' Fucking logic, right there."

"To Delta, that was the only solution." Sigma didn't look up, instead persisting in doodling. "Place yourself in his shoes. All his life, he'd been trained to be adjusted to that way of life. Furthermore, his father had spent many years working on building and maintaining a criminal organization. To Delta, letting go would mean that his entire life, as well as Theta's and the majority of his father's, would have been entirely in vain. To him, the only logical response is to make sure that all that effort meant something." Sigma flipped to a new page. "Aside from that... I don't think he knows how to do anything else."

Church crossed his arms, scowling as he looked out the window. He tried to imagine being in Delta's shoes. All he could think about was how fucked it was to drag his brother along with that.

"He... he shouldn't drag Theta along with it," Church muttered quietly.

"Theta may have chosen to do something else, were he left to his own devices. But he would never leave Delta."

"Whatever, it's all fucked. And Delta's still shit at running the thing."

"He has his downsides. He's completely logic. He has no instincts, creativity or real leadership abilities. But he does well enough, at least for now." Sigma shut his sketchbook. "I can supply what he doesn't have. Maybe guide him towards an ambition that never belonged to his father. But he'll need time before he gets anywhere."

"Doesn't make him any less of a dick."

"Whatever you want to believe, Leonard."

 

* * *

 

Church did eventually manage to actually kill someone. Admittedly, his bullets never seemed to hit what he was aiming at, but occasionally he hit people standing near his actual targets. Eventually, shooting at people just got easier. Church didn't like it, sure, but he could do it. And it didn't bother him too much as long as he kept thinking of them as faceless goons.

Sometimes that illusion failed. Like when he'd take a wallet off a corpse (sometimes he needed information or identification) and find family photos, or a shopping list of groceries. Little things like that sometimes reminded him that these were actually people he was shooting. For the most part, he just tried to shove it to the back of his mind.

There was at least one silver lining. So far, at least, Church had managed to survive all the ridiculous jobs with nothing more than minor injuries. Barring one instance when he'd been shot in the shoulder, which hurt like a bitch. But a few months after the incident with Jimmy, he was still alive. Grumpy, but alive.

He and Eddie were still stuck at Delta's house. Delta didn't want Church running off, and so it was either both of them staying in the house or Church living separately from his little brother. And the second option was out of the question.

When Church followed Sigma into the house (Sigma was still living there, too, as he had not yet found another apartment) he found Eddie in the living room with Theta, scribbling pictures with crayon and chattering happily. Eddie and Theta seemed to get along well, despite their age difference.

"Leo! Leo, Leo, Leo!" As soon as Eddie saw Church, he hurried over and tugged Church's hand eagerly. "I drew some drawings! Lookit!" He dragged Church over to where he and Theta had been drawing. He picked up some and shoved them happily at Church.

Looking at them, Church could kind of distinguish the different people in them. Sigma and Theta seemed to show up a lot, as did Church himself. Delta was in a couple of them, too. Church rifled through them, but almost dropped them when he came across the last one.

The last one was clearly a drawing of their father, with scrawled stick-figures to represent him and Eddie standing over him. There was a lot of red in that picture.

"Eddie, what the hell?" Church yelped. Eddie looked confused and a little upset.

"It's Dad. The night that we ran off."

"I know, but... Jesus, why would you draw something like that?!"

"Well... It was scary. But if we hadn't done that we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't know Theta and Sigma and Delta. And they are much nicer people than Dad. Even though Delta keeps hiding in the basement. So... it was sort of a good thing that happened." Eddie looked up at him with wide eyes. He looked afraid, like Church was going to shout at him. "Is that bad?"

Church put down the pictures with a sigh. "Probably shouldn't say it out loud. But, I guess that sort of makes sense." If they hadn't killed their father, then they'd just be living the same life. Church would still be stealing things to help Eddie, it just wouldn't require being shot at. And Eddie would spend practically all his time locked up in the house with an emotionally and sometimes physically abusive father who constantly accused him of killing their mother.

Later on, whenever Church considered quitting or trying to run again, this time from the people who had pushed him into being a full-on criminal... He'd remember what Eddie said. He'd remember that, even if living at home had been more dangerous for him... that Eddie was safer and happier with Delta and Theta than he'd ever been before.

Eddie was happier this way. And if he was happier this way, then Church would keep things going like that.

 

* * *

 

"Delta? Delta? ...Dee?"

Delta's first realization was that Sigma must have completed his most recent job successfully. The second was that his face was pressed against a keyboard. Delta lifted his head to see Sigma standing next to him. Furthermore, his computer screen was little more than a mass of meaningless letters.

"Did someone place a sedative in my drink?" Delta mumbled. His father had done that once. The first time he'd lectured Delta for not being on his guard. After that, Delta had always checked his drinks. But there was always a chance of missing some little known sedative.

"I'd say it was more likely that you just fell asleep on the keyboard."

Delta supposed, given that he'd been awake for forty-eight hours and thirty-one minutes, that it was a reasonable conclusion. "Regardless of the reason, there is no time for sleep. I have various objectives to complete before I retire to bed." Delta looked at his computer screen for a moment before adding, "I shall have to start over. This document is little more than random letters."

"Get some rest. If you keep pushing yourself too far, you'll die from exhaustion."

"I am far from that, Sigma. If it were currently a serious danger, I would rest."

Sigma sat down and studied Delta closely, before saying, "Even your father took the occasional break. Not sleeping won't disappoint him."

Delta rubbed his eyes, trying to blink any sleep out of them. "I do not require any rest at this time. Please keep out of my business, Sigma."

Sigma let out a little sigh. "Dee. If you don't go to bed, you know what's coming."

Delta did know. Both him and Theta had been rather unruly as children when it came to bedtime. At one point, they had both hidden in the next door neighbour’s garage just to escape bedtime. Their father had always found them quickly. Sigma was almost as good. And once he found them...

Delta still didn't move, despite knowing what would follow, so Sigma carried out his threat. He quickly grabbed Delta and slung him over his shoulder. It wasn't difficult, given that Sigma was substantially bigger than him. Persistently thumping his fists against Sigma's back did little to dissuade him.

"Sigma, put me down. This is undignified," Delta said flatly.

"Well, if you just went to bed when I told you to..."

"You are not a babysitter any longer. Nor are you my father, regardless of your occasional attempts to emulate parental behavior."

"Someone has to look after you, don't they? Who do you think leaves food next to your computer? If I didn't, you'd probably starve." Sigma carried Delta through the house nonchalantly. This was considered such a normal activity that when he passed by the living room, where Theta was sitting and reading, he merely looked up for a moment before returning to his book.

Once Sigma had dumped him on the bed, Delta glared at him and said, "I do not require coddling. Kindly mind your own business."

"Fine. Find a caretaker who doesn't mind your criminal behavior and I'll stop."

Delta crossed his arms and said, "I wish to continue working."

"It's not happening tonight. You're already here. Go to sleep."

"If it is the only way to stop you pestering me, very well," Delta said stiffly.

"Good." Sigma patted Delta on the shoulder for a moment before saying, "Just sleep for now." He left the room and shut the door behind him. Delta waited a few moments before slipping out of bed and heading to where he kept his laptop. There was simply no spare time for sleeping.

A few moments later, as he set up his laptop in the dark, there was a knocking at his door. Delta quickly returned to bed before saying, "Who is there?"

The door swung open and Theta stuck his head in. "Dee? ...I want to go to sleep."

"Then the logical solution would be to go to your room and climb into the bed, as that is generally the accepted norm when it comes to sleep," Delta said.

"I know. But I'm scared. ...My nightlight broke."

Delta considered this for a few moments. "And you are prevented from turning on your regular lights?"

"It's too bright. Can I stay in here?"

That would prevent Delta from getting any work done. On the other hand, he had certain brotherly duties that he was required to perform. Being a source of comfort during distressing moments caused by malfunctioning lights shaped like a star was one of those duties.

"You may stay."

Theta's expression brightened at these words and he practically jumped onto the bed, making it creak ominously. He immediately clung to Delta. "Thank you." After a moment of pause, he said, "I locked all the windows. Will that keep people out?"

"If they truly want to enter, I doubt a flimsy lock will stop them," Delta said dryly. When he felt Theta cling tighter, he added, "I have a handgun in the bedside drawers."

"What kind? ...You know what, I'll just check, hang on." Theta let go of Delta and rummaged around in the bedside drawers for the gun. He spent a couple of minutes examining it, making sure it was in perfect condition, before placing it back in the drawers. He clung to Delta again. "Okay. I'm less scared now."

"Good." Delta awkwardly patted Theta on the head. He was rarely comfortable with any form of physical affection. Theta was the only person who was ever allowed more than a cordial handshake or a pat on the shoulder.

Theta was asleep minutes later, arm still curled around Delta. He probably could have quietly gotten up and returned to his laptop. Theta would not have noticed, and he'd fulfilled the obligations of the older sibling.

But he stayed with Theta anyway.

 

* * *

 

Before Church knew it, five years had gone by.

Nothing much changed during those five years. Church kept working for Delta. Delta eventually stopped treating Church and Eddie as hostages and gave them permission to move out provided they stayed in a nearby part of the city, but Church never got around to it.

Delta continued to send Church on jobs. Sigma accompanied him less and less, as Delta trusted Church with more important or delicate jobs. Anything that required diplomacy was still relegated to Sigma (Church tended to get aggravated by words too easily) but turned out, once Church knew the ins and outs of things, that considering a dangerous situation, taking in the variables and deciding what was least likely to get them all killed wasn't too hard. Church still had horrible aim with a gun, though. But it seemed like, after the first few years, people just learned to stay the fuck out of his way. Church was fine with that.

The only thing that really changed drastically was Eddie. It felt like he grew up extremely fast, maybe because Church was so busy that he couldn't always take care of Eddie as much as he would like. All of a sudden, Eddie was eleven. Much taller, kind of gangly. Messier hair and with a few more swearwords in his vocabulary, as much as Church tried to discourage it. No longer drawing crayon pictures, although he still enjoyed painting. It wasn't uncommon for Eddie, Theta and Sigma to splatter the house in paint.

Church's daily routine seemed to consist of jobs and sleeping, with whatever spare time he had dedicated to taking care of Eddie. There was no room for anything else. Just routine. But routine was comforting.

Then, five years down the track, Delta and Sigma just had to fuck that shit up.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Gary was a hard man to find in a crowd. His business meant that he was very good at disguise, and combined with a naturally plain appearance it was often difficult to remember what Gary looked like. He tended to rotate between high-quality wigs, different styles of clothing and often obscured his face in non-obtrusive ways, such as with glasses.

Sigma had contacted him through phone to arrange a meeting, and had been directed to a city square that was surrounded by restaurants. There were many people here milling about, and Gary had neglected to tell Sigma how he’d be dressed.

Sigma sat down on a bench and gazed at the area for a good five minutes before someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was not Gary, but a short, black teenager holding an ice-cream cone.

"Hey. You’re the guy, right? That dude Gary told me to get?”

“And who are you, then?” Sigma said cautiously, unwilling to reveal his intent to the first person who knew Gary’s name.

“Uh, y’know. Someone. Mutual friend or whatever. Well, not ‘friend.’ Gary’s kind of weird. Teacher? Temp teacher? Something like that. Given the shitty cut I’m getting from him, it’s kind of like being an intern. But, y’know… for Gary’s shit. Anyway, Gary isn’t here, he’s doing a thing, but he said I should find you around here. He’ll be back soon.”

“I see. Am I required to go anywhere else?”

“Nah. I think he just wants to know if I can find people in crowds well. I had to narrow it down from all the other bald dudes in the area.” The kid gestured at Sigma’s head and said, “What’s with baldness, anyway? You. Gary. Do you two belong to a club that requires chrome domes or some shit? Because if so, I don’t wanna join.”

“No-one is asking you to. ...Believe me,” Sigma sighed.

“Rude.”

Sigma remained where he was, largely ignoring the chattering teenager. It was another five minutes before Gary finally arrived. He had on a wig of springy brown hair, jammed underneath a hat, and was dressed in a manner befitting a middle-aged librarian.

“How long did it take you to find him, Tucker?”

“Only, like, three minutes.”

“Better than I expected.” Gary nodded at Sigma. “Sidney.”

“That’s not currently my name.”

“Then we have a lot to catch up on.”

“We do.” Sigma looked at Tucker and said, “I was not aware you were a teacher nowadays. I’m sure educating children is rewarding work.”

“Fuck you, I’m sixteen! I’m basically an adult!”

“The pay could be higher,” Gary said mildly.

“Oh, screw you, you’re getting a bigger cut than I am,” Tucker grumbled.

“That’s a teaching fee.”

“It’s a bullshit fee is what it is. At least C.T has connections to the big scams. Something that makes the small cut worth it.”

Sigma raised an eyebrow at Gary, who shifted where he was standing a little. After a moment of silence, he said, “I wanted to talk to you about a job. Your old job.”

“Found a new leader?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is he also bald?” Tucker interjected. “Or does him being the only one with hair make him the most powerful by default?”

“Tucker. This would be a good time for you to do your half of the job,” Gary said, eye twitching slightly.

“Aw, man. But I wanna know.” Nonetheless, Tucker left, muttering something about how said leader must be king of the assholes if Sigma and Gary were anything to judge by.

Once he was gone, Sigma rounded on Gary. “You’re working with C.T now?”

“She pays well.”

“You know who she works for.”

“I do. But it has yet to be a problem. As far as she knows, I’m an independent worker. A fact that is actually true, since that incident eight years ago.” Gary sat down in the seat that had been vacated by Tucker. “Tell me why I should consider working with you again, Sidney.”

“Still not my name.”

“Would you prefer your codename in public?”

Sigma let out an annoyed sigh before changing the subject back on track. “Dee knows his work. He’s willing to listen to reason, unlike his father. He knows he needs assistance.”

“Good. He was smart, but last I saw him he didn’t have leadership capabilities. Then who’s leading? You?”

“I suggested it, but… Dee seemed to find the idea objectionable.”

Gary let out a small noise that could have been construed as a laugh, although as with any noise or speech Gary made it was hard to tell through the perpetual monotone. Sigma frowned, but continued as though Gary had made no such noise.

“We have someone in mind, although his qualities, I’ll admit, are not… perfect. But suitable for the present. We will ask him once we’ve finalized our list of potential higher-ups.”

“Who else besides that?”

“I intend to ask Maine to return. Other than that… with the amount of injuries sustained, Dee has decided we need someone who can fix us when we break.”

A smile flitted across Gary’s face. “I know someone. He’d be happy to take the job.”

“Reliable?”

“That’s a matter of opinion, but he’ll remain loyal to a cause if it proves interesting enough.”

“I’ll put it into consideration. And you?”

“...I suppose it has to be better than educating children in the art of glim-dropping scams.”

 

* * *

 

 "You think it is a good idea? The history could complicate the matter."

"Gary seems very certain about his character, and from what background research I did—"

"What's going on? I wanna fucking sleep," Church grumbled, stomping into the basement. Delta was gazing at his computer screen and occasionally tapping the keys, while Sigma sat on a nearby chair.

"It's nine in the morning," Delta observed.

"So? I'm tired!"

"I have pleasant news. We have dealt with many small, illicit organizations in the area over the last five years."

"I know. I was there," Church grumbled.

"But, at the present time... aside from the Director, there are wide gaps in the various illegal markets. It is now the perfect time to acquire assets."

"Meaning?"

"We purchase enough to control the illegal trades among the city. There will be hardly anyone who will attempt to intrude, because they are all deceased or have moved on in other ways. I have a lot of people who I can get to do the basic tasks, but they will all need oversight, and I need people for specialized roles that I can trust. We have two contacts. Likely willing to work again now that the window of opportunity is open. One of them has already agreed to return to us."

"Great. Whatever. Can I sleep now?"

"Negative. I need to talk to you." Delta looked at Sigma. "Can you handle Meta by yourself?"

"Of course. I'm sure he'll be eager to re-join this business." Sigma clapped Delta on the shoulder before leaving. Delta turned his chair around to face Church.

"I have a new job for you."

"Shocker. What's that?"

Delta tilted his head a little, studying Church in a way that made him feel like every quality and every flaw Church possessed was being weighed up for some ominous purpose. Church straightened a little, shifting uncomfortably. After considering Church for a while, Delta spoke again.

“This syndicate no longer has a leader. Although I can maintain some level of control from a computer, it isn't enough. We need someone that can be looked to as a leader. I think that person should be you.”

There was a long pause, during which Church stared at Delta like he'd just grown a second head.

“...You're joking, right?” he said finally.

“I rarely joke, and not about matters like this.”

Church frowned, plopping into Sigma's vacated chair. “That's ridiculous. You've met me, right? I mean, I know you spend a lot of time in the basement, but you've met me. I'm not even allowed to talk to people during jobs any more because I keep fucking yelling at them.”

“You're not allowed to talk to people during deals, that's true. But we'll have people for that.” Delta shifted forward a little, clasping his hands in his lap. “You are not ideal. I will not pretend you are. But there is no-one else I can even consider.”

“There has to be someone.”

“Who?” Delta ticked off one finger. “Theta is highly skilled in combat but too emotionally fragile.” He ticked off another finger. “Meta is unbalanced and mute due to a throat injury.” Another finger. “Gamma lies so often that it is impossible to distinguish most of his words from truth.”

“What about Sigma?”

This time, Delta hesitated for a while before speaking in a more uncertain tone than his usual calm manner.

“Sigma… is someone who I would feel uncomfortable giving a large amount of power to.”

“Why?”

“I have reasons. Not least of which is his ambition. Sigma covets power. While I value his counsel, putting him in a position above me...” Delta tailed off, looking uncomfortable, before forcing his face back into a blank appearance. "But then there is you. Despite your dubious marksmanship—"

"Up yours, the sight is off on my gun."

"You have proven yourself trustworthy. You have never tried to override my ideas. The fact that you are not dead proves your survivability. Furthermore, you keep your calm in bad situations—"

"Keep my—have you fucking heard me on a mission?!"

"You scream a lot, yes. But you do not lose your head," Delta said dismissively. "At the very least, you know when to stop and when to retreat. While you may communicate abrasively, you give off an impression of honesty, which makes the other employees believe you aren't about to double-cross them. Finally, your ambition levels are not so high that you would try twisting the group for your own purposes. I do not plan to let you run everything as you wish. In truth, we would be roughly equal in power. But you would be the more apparent leader."

"Then why don't you just run the whole damn thing?"

"I... am not good with people." The tone Delta used this time was mildly embarrassed. "This may only be a temporary arrangement. But for now... you are simply the only choice."

"Well, shit."

"If you maintain the arrangement successfully until I can acquire a replacement, then I shall let you and your brother leave, should you wish to. You will be allowed to go free and do whatever you like."

Church closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. "Fuck, I was hoping this was just a fucked up dream. So, you'll still be making up all the plans and stuff, right?"

"Yes."

“How's this affect what I do?”

“You would almost never work alone. Most of your work would involve contacting or working with others. It would likely put you in less overt danger, provided that the people you work with are trustworthy.”

“That's… something, I guess. Fuck it, I'll give it a shot. Now can I sleep?"

"Negative." Delta went back to staring at his computer screen. "Now, in regards to the work I have lined up for today. There is one more man who I am considering. I... have doubts on his trustworthiness, but as someone who has had medical training he would be invaluable, and Sigma and Gamma believe he will be loyal so long as the jobs are interesting. I want you to come with me to convince him."

"Why me?"

"Aside from the fact that you now represent this syndicate, he would be somewhat interested in meeting you. In truth, you have both met once before."

"I think I would remember it."

"I am sure you remember it. Do you recall the very first job I sent you on? The one I sent through Jimmy?"

There was a moment of silence before it clicked.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

 

* * *

 

"This is absolutely insane," Church muttered, following Delta through the streets. Delta kept peering down at a piece of paper which had directions scribbling on it. Theta was also with them, but he had chosen to use his skateboard as an alternative to walking and was trying to balance on it somewhere behind them. "You want to hire O'Malley? He's a fucking psycho, I could tell that from the few minutes I spent tied up on his floor!"

"Yes, the tying up. He was most likely planning to sell your organs on the black market. He made a living doing that, even before his surgical licence was taken away, and I have reason to believe he may dabble in serial killing."

"You don't just dabble in serial killing! Jesus, no wonder they took his fucking licence..."

"Actually..." Delta looked down at the directions, before turning left and hurrying down another street. "His licence was taken away because he was stealing supplies from the hospital. Primarily drugs that cannot be easily purchased over the counter. The package you stole from his house was proof of that activity. In short, he lost his surgical licence because of you."

"And so you think the best way to get him to help us is to get me, the person who apparently ruined his career, to knock on his door and ask. That's a brilliant idea. Really," Church said dryly. "I am filled with confidence."

"O'Malley has a strong weakness for things he finds interesting. Working with you, someone who managed to escape him, would fulfill the criteria."

"Wouldn't he just stab me in the back?"

"He would be more likely to stab you in the front so that he could watch your facial expressions," Delta said dismissively. He stopped in front of a small house. "This is it."

"Great, I'm gonna die," Church muttered. "I hate you so much right now, you know."

"I am aware of that." Delta looked behind him at Theta and quietly gestured to him. Theta nodded and clambered off the skateboard, tucking it underneath his arm as he trotted up and took his place at Delta's side. "You have your weapon ready?"

"Yeah, Dee."

"Excellent." Delta raised his hand and knocked on the door three times.

"What do you want?" a voice yelled from the inside.

"We would like to discuss business."

"And who, exactly, is 'we?'"

"You know me by the name of Delta."

There was a long pause, and then a short chuckle. "Delta? You evade capture for years, and suddenly show up on the doorstep of someone who ratted you out. Interesting method of hiding. I thought you were supposed to be logical."

"It is bad manners to conduct conversation through a door, O'Malley. Let us inside, and we can discuss this further."

"Well, why not." The door was unlocked, and the door swung open. O'Malley looked first at Delta, looking rather amused. "You look quite different that what I imagined."

"I know."

He looked at Theta for a few moments, his expression unchanging, but then his eyes moved over to Church. His expression changed from amused to furious to a strange, creepy smile in less than a second. It was rather startling.

"Have you brought the thief as a bargaining chip? Do I get to carve him into organ transplants if I agree to your little business deal?" he asked. "Because if so, I'll take it."

"You're fucking crazy," Church muttered.

"How about we cut the tongue out first?"

"Theta," Delta said quietly. Theta nodded, pulled back his jacket and showed O'Malley the handgun he had tucked inside. "O'Malley. If you persist in threatening my associate, Theta will give you a demonstration of his skills with a firearm." Theta closed his jacket again and smiled cheerfully. "There will be no mutilation. We are here to recruit you for a criminal syndicate that primarily works with illegal goods, although we occasionally expand into other areas. However, we have a tendency to attract a large amount of unfriendly attention, meaning your skills would be invaluable to us. But we cannot pay you with organs that belong to the Alpha."

"Alpha?" Church questioned.

"That is you."

"Oh, okay."

"A puppet leader, hm? Certainly an angle I can get behind," O'Malley murmured. He smiled widely. "So, would this scheme of yours have anything to do with the large amount of bodies that have been arriving at my back door in the last few years? Quite a lot of criminals have been dying. It's been quite good for business."

"Yeah, that was us. Kind of. Sometimes," Church said. "Look, either you're gonna help us or you're not. Honestly, I'd rather you didn't. You'd probably stab me in the back first chance you get."

"Depends on how interesting your little group is."

O'Malley strolled further back into his house. Following, Church saw that a large portion of the house was actually a very makeshift operating table. It was shoddy, but very clean. O'Malley gestured at two metal folding chairs before sitting in a different chair, one slightly more cushioned.

“So who else is in this little group of yours?”

"Gary recommended you."

O'Malley had been slouching in his chair before Gary was mentioned, but now sat up straighter. "Oh, you've got Gary? He's fun. We share a lot of... interests. Although he's less concerned with the visceral stuff. Likes minds more than bodies. Still. Fun. Who else?"

"Too much information for someone who hasn't agreed to join us yet," Delta pointed out.

"Is seeing your face not too much?"

Delta tilted his head slightly, considering it, before nodding. "That is an excellent point. I suppose we will have to dispose of you if you don't want to join us, then."

"For fuck's sake, Delta, stop threatening people with murder," Church snapped.

"It worked well with you."

"Yeah, but it's rude as fuck!"

O'Malley seemed unperturbed by the death threats. "And the other people involved?"

"Apart from Gary, there will be Sigma and Meta."

"Oh, yes, Sigma. Bald, orange eyes? Strange man," O'Malley said.

“Calling the kettle black,” Church muttered under his breath. O'Malley glared at him before looking back at Delta.

"I'm less familiar with Meta. What's he like?"

"His job is brute force."

"Ah, one of those. I suppose Gary is for charm and intelligence. And I'd guess, since you specifically sought me out, that you want medical skills." O'Malley grinned, leaning back on his chair. “If this job stays interesting, then you are guaranteed my loyalty. Carving up organs from second-hand bodies is somewhat dull. A change of career might be nice." He chuckled. "If things get boring, you might have problems. But as long as they are interesting I will cooperate. On one condition."

"Which is?" Delta questioned.

"We kill anyone, I get the bodies. I still have a business to run. Also, if we catch anyone alive... permission to torture would be wonderful."

"That is fucked up," Church muttered.

"Deal," Delta said immediately.

"Hey! I thought you said I was the leader!"

"In the field, yes. These are simply side negotiations."

"No, fuck you, we're outside the house. We're totally in the field."

 

* * *

 

Sigma never bothered knocking. Maine was fairly reclusive. Always had been, was even more so nowadays. Since he injured his throat a few years back he’d had problems communicating and no desire to learn alternate ways of doing so. Point was, Sigma knew he wouldn’t have guests. A roommate for the rent was necessary, of course. He hadn’t heard anything about Maine working in the last few years, at least not their sort of work. But Sigma had done research beforehand, and the roommate had a night job.

He waited for the roommate to leave the house before entering. He slipped into the main room soundlessly and saw Maine in a chair nearby, facing the television. The television wasn’t on, and Maine looked half-asleep. Definitely no work, then. Maine had much more energy when there was work to be done.

Sigma observed silently for a while before taking a few steps closer.

“Maine.”

Maine immediately jolted into action, on his feet and hand stretching for where Sigma knew there must be a concealed weapon before seeing that it was Sigma. His hand lowered immediately, but now he was alert. He let out a small noise, one that Sigma had learned to associate with his own name.

“Yes, Maine. I’m sorry I haven’t visited recently.” Sigma sat down on the seat nearest to Maine. “I’ve been busy with Delta. Do you remember Delta?”

There was a pause, before Maine nodded slowly.

“Delta is reforming our old syndicate, Maine. I want you to join us.”

Maine tilted his head a little, frowning. A disagreeable rumble came from him.

“Are you concerned about your old… friend? There is no guarantee that we will meet Carolina. ...But I’ll admit, her competitive nature and ruthlessness in our field means she may take our allegiance as a personal challenge.”

Another low rumble.

“Do you want Carolina to keep you from this? She wanted to remove you from your work, Maine. You like your work.” Sigma said that last sentence a little forcefully. “And she thought you weren’t capable, all because of a little throat injury. If you quit out of old loyalties, then she would have won. She replaced you so quickly, Maine. I’ve seen your replacement, you know. He’s nowhere near as capable as you. Shouldn’t you show her that you are not so easily discarded?”

Maine flinched a little, scowling at the television.

“Are you enjoying your current life? Isn’t it dull? Empty? Colourless? Don’t you miss the colour?” Sigma leaned forward, brushing a hand lightly against Maine’s shoulder before touching his face. “Don’t you miss me?”

Maine blinked slowly, subconsciously leaning a little into Sigma’s touch. When Sigma removed his hand, Maine leaned forward to follow for a moment before catching himself doing so, shifting back to a normal sitting position. He considered it for a moment longer before nodding.

“Then you’ll do it?”

He tilted his head again, then let out a short grunt.

“Yes, we were a little short on people, but that’s changed. We have a new leader. We’ve named him Alpha, although Delta still has a lot of power over the proceedings. He’s a little unrefined… but he’ll do, for now. Keeps his head for the most part, even if he’s an atrocious shot, and he can be influenced. Enough that it won’t be like with Delta’s father. Theta will be old enough to be our sharpshooter. Gamma will remain our chief informant. And we will have a new recruit named Omega, he’ll be our… medic, I suppose. But none of them have your strength, Maine. We need you to be our strength. We need you to be Meta again.”

At the word ‘Meta,’ Maine straightened in his seat. A flicker of something passed across his face. Excitement, perhaps? Anticipation? Whatever it was, it was what Sigma wanted.

He didn’t need the word ‘yes.’ Maine—Meta—wouldn’t have been able to communicate it anyway.

 

* * *

 

Church was certain of one thing. It was a room of freaks.

 They had tried to cram all of the new employees, as well as the old ones, into the rather small living room. Church was jammed between Gamma, a thin, bald man who looked fairly normal, were it not for his blank expression, and Meta, a giant with a shaved, tattooed head and brutal scars covering his neck. What was it with shaved heads in this group?

Meta was watching Eddie unblinkingly. Something that was sitting badly with Church. Church was about to tell Meta to knock it off when Sigma walked past and touched Meta on the shoulder.

"Don't stare, Maine. It's rude."

Meta immediately looked downwards. Sigma smiled slightly and took a seat on a nearby chair that had been dragged in from elsewhere in the house. Delta and O'Malley—dubbed Omega now—were seated on similar chairs. Delta looking stiff and uncomfortable at such a crowded room, while O'Malley was lounging back and grinning. Theta and Eddie were seated on the floor, making paper airplanes.

"Alpha."

It took Church a few moments to respond. He kept forgetting it was his codename.

"Yeah, what?"

Delta stared at him like it was obvious. "Address them."

"Now? I barely know what we're—"

Delta raised an eyebrow, as if to say, 'do you want to say you don't know what you're doing in front of your co-workers?'

"...Okay, whatever." Church stood up. "Uh... guys?" Six pairs of eyes immediately focused on him. (It should have been seven, but Theta was more concerned with his paper airplane.) "So, uh... do good work and don't get yourselves fucking killed and arrested. Alright?"

Omega snorted at these words.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, O'Malley, let's see you do better." Church scratched the back of his head before adding, "We got... you know, big plans and all that. So, uh. Stick around. They'll be money and you'll get to stab shit if you're interested in that kind of thing. Fuck if I know why you would be. Alright?"

Moment of silence, before most of the others nodded and made... well, apathetic noises, mostly. But they didn't sound too derisive. Only Omega rolled his eyes. Eddie put up his hand.

"Yeah, Eddie? You don't have to raise a hand, this isn't a fucking—whoops, shit—uh, I mean... nevermind. This isn't a classroom."

"Can I have a codename?" Eddie asked.

"The hell do you want a codename for? ...Hell, why are you even in here? You're not going to go out and shoot people with us," Church said sternly.

"I felt left out. And the codenames sound cool."

"Uh. Sure, I guess. Can't hurt." Church looked at Delta. "What's the Greek letter for E?"

"That would be Epsilon."

"Alright. You can be Epsilon."

"Cool."


	7. Flashback Five - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the fifth flashback out of eight, continued on from the flashbacks shown in Volume 1. This part includes Grif and Simmons, Tucker, Caboose and Donut.
> 
> Grif and Simmons come to terms with some feelings that they tried to ignore. Tucker tries to deal with the panic of rather abruptly being a father. A year after the accident, problems with Caboose and his family come to a head. Donut frosts some cakes and hangs out with his new roommate.

**Grif and Simmons**

 

Three more years went by, and not much changed.

Grif slowly returned to his normal self around Simmons, and the whole incident with Sister was eventually left in a pile of 'awkward moments that everyone pretended never happened.' It wasn't long before the three of them could have out again without Grif giving either of them glares.

That was really all that mattered. Things were normal again.

Mostly.

Both Grif and Simmons very vehemently insisted, particularly to themselves, that everything was normal. Neither of them admitted how much they would miss the other's company if they had another fight and left each other for good. Neither of them admitted the occasional pondering looks they gave the other as they argued or watched television together and just generally hung out and had a good time.

Sister started giving them both looks. Looks that eerily reminded Simmons of when his mother would tell Simmons that her friend from down the road had a daughter about his age. Grif had nothing to compare the look to, so he wasn't spooked out at all. But both of them noticed when Sister started making excuses to leave the room or house when the three of them were hanging out, and all too often she'd burst in at random times holding a camera. It was getting a little weird.

Often, when a lot of these little incidents happened, either Grif or Simmons—sometimes both—would make an excuse to stay distant for a few days. But it only ever lasted a few days. Often shorter, before they bounced back to each other.

They liked each other's company too much to stay away for too long.

Grif was a lot more easygoing, and accepted a lot quicker that his occasional tendency to stare at Simmons when he thought Simmons wasn't looking was not caused by anything platonic. But whatever. No point in saying anything.

Simmons just rejected any thoughts outright, and tried to think about something else whenever his thoughts got too, well… gay. Really, could he have worse taste? Why couldn't he just find a girl and stop being weird? Girls were pretty, too. Terrifying, but pretty.

Point was that shit went on as it always had. Until one New Year's Eve.

 

* * *

 

"Simmons! Where's the bottle opener?" Grif yelled.

"Haven't used it lately, but you were drinking a couple of days ago. So you probably left it under the couch," Simmons called back, as he finished typing on his computer. He was creating a computer virus for a client. As soon as Grif walked in, Simmons switched off the screen. He still had no plans to let Grif know about his job. Not that Grif would be able to tell he was working on a virus, unless there was a cartoonish skull and crossbones on the screen at the same time.

"Yeah, it was under the couch. Thanks, man."

"No problem. Just do me a favour. When you get blind stinking drunk tonight, try not to do it in the living room. I hate having to clean up afterwards."

"Where else am I supposed to?" Grif raised the bottle opener. "Come on, quit the working. It's fucking New Years' Eve."

"I know, I'm just finishing up."

"Awesome, because there's a shit ton of alcohol and sparklers out here."

Simmons raised an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed that I wouldn't touch alcohol while living under the same roof."

"No, no. We agreed you couldn't drink while under the same roof as Sister. And she's meeting some friends for New Years," Grif said, grinning. "You can drink as long as she's not here, sure."

“I… I don't know, I mean what if it starts a habit? What if I do something stupid again?”

“It's normal to do stupid shit on New Year's Eve. It's, y'know, cleansing for the new year or something. I dunno. Come on, if I get drunk by myself while staring at the celebrations and shit on the television it's just going to be depressing.”

“That doesn't normally stop you.”

“Simmoooooons,” Grif whined, stomping his feet and staring at Simmons like he was denying Grif the last Oreo. Simmons was starting to get a slight sense of deja vu. Perhaps members of the Grif family just had an inbuilt urge to pressure him into drinking.

"Alright. I'll drink. But I'm not getting drunk. Important distinction."

“Whatever.”

 

* * *

 

Inevitably, any conversation that Grif and Simmons that ran on for too long always turned towards either arguing, ridiculous subjects that had absolutely no relevance whatsoever or both. This was doubly true when either of them had been drinking.

"What do you think would happen if a vampire bit a werewolf?" Grif asked. He fumbled over his words a little, but was holding it together quite well considering that he had drunk enough to make a pyramid out of his beer cans.

"I guess you'd end up with a werepire? Easy. The real question is..." As Simmons talked, he waved the hand holding his own beer around, narrowly avoiding splashing the contents everywhere. "Would a werepire have the weaknesses of both vampires and werewolves? Like, be vulnerable to sunlight, crosses and silver bullets? Or would he have to be faced with the weaknesses of both creatures at the same time?"

"You mean, like, using a cross made of silver? In the sunlight?"

"Yeah."

"Nah, that'd just be stupid. Who is gonna wave around a silver cross?" Grif drained another beer can before starting to build another pyramid. "Okay... What about if either a vampire or a werewolf was bitten by a zombie?"

"Well, a werewolf could become a zombie. Sure. But a vampire couldn't. Being bitten by a zombie turns someone into the walking dead, but a vampire already is dead, see?"

"Hm. So you couldn't have a werezombiepire?"

"Of course not, that's just ridiculous."

"And a werepire or werezombie isn't?"

"No, because that's backed up by science." Simmons considered this for a moment, then added, "A werezombiepire would be easier to kill than any of the three separately, because it would have the weaknesses of all three. And chopping off the heads of vampires and werewolves worked just as well as it does for zombies."

"That's true."

"I still say your zombie plan will never work. The highways would be clogged. You'll be a sitting duck."

"Well, maybe if you actually told me what you were planning to do once your food runs out, then I could tell if your plan was better," Grif retorted, punching Simmons lightly in the shoulder. They both lapsed into amiable silence, watching the clock. Still ten minutes before New Years.

"What'll this be? Fifth year of being roomies?" Grif asked.

"Sixth," Simmons said immediately.

"Right. Sixth. Dude, that's like a quarter of my life." Grif opened another can of beer. He still didn't seem anything more than lightly buzzed. Simmons looked down at his own beer, wondering if Grif was a robot on the inside. It would explain the almost superhuman resistance to alcohol. But Simmons quickly dismissed the notion. Grif was too... flawed. Who would build a robot to be a chubby, lazy, alcoholic dumbass?

"Yeah. Long time. Regret wasting your time here at all?"

"Nah. I mean, you're kind of a buzzkill sometimes, but not all the time."

Soon, it was five minutes before New Years. And at that point, Grif and Simmons were back to random arguments.

"That's ridiculous. How could Bruce Lee kick Batman's ass?" Simmons demanded. "Bruce Lee was cool, sure, but he's just a normal guy who knows kung fu."

"Yeah, so? Batman wouldn't be able to do shit without all the fancy gadgets and the outfit and shit. If you took those away, Bruce Lee would fucking kick Batman's ass all over Gotham."

"Okay, let's say that was true. Even so, how would Bruce get Batman to drop all his fancy stuff? Batman would get him before he could manage it. Besides, without the fancy stuff he isn't Batman. He's just Bruce Wayne." Simmons paused. "Why is Bruce Lee even fighting Batman?"

"Maybe it's part of a bet. Maybe he wanted to prove he was the stronger Bruce. Or maybe it's because some idiot nerd insulted him by saying he could get defeated by a guy dressed as a bat."

"You're just insulting Batman because you're afraid of bats."

A robot wouldn't be afraid of bats, either.

"I'm not afraid of bats, who said I was afraid of bats?" Grif said quickly. "And I never said Batman wasn't cool. Bruce Lee is just more badass, is all."

Plus, a robot would be able to calculate the odds and realise that Batman could easily beat Bruce Lee in a fight. Simmons continued to ponder the reasons why Grif couldn't possibly be a robot. There were a lot of them. Hell, Grif was probably the most unrobotic... the most human... person he'd ever met. Admittedly, Simmons had never been too sociable. The main people in his life had been his family, all of whom were more robotic than robots, and besides that there had been a few high school nerds whose main point of friendship had been being forced into the same building each day and having a fondness for computers. Otherwise, there had only been Grif and Sister. Still...

Grif was still rambling.

"Now, Superman. Superman could beat Bruce Lee. Because his only weakness is kryptonite, and Bruce Lee doesn't have any," Grif said. "But Batman? No freaking way."

Simmons wasn't really listening at this point. He was just watching Grif talk. Lazy, stupid, alcoholic, incredibly flawed Grif.

"Now, if Bruce Lee was a superhero..." Grif started. He never got a chance to explain what would happen if Bruce Lee became a superhero, because Simmons impulsively grabbed Grif's shoulders and pulled him forward, smashing their mouths together.

After a few long moments, during which all Simmons could really feel was the texture of Grif's shirt underneath his fingers, as well as the strong taste of alcohol on his breath, he pulled back. And then his mind caught up.

Oh fuck. Not again. Why the hell did Simmons keep doing this?!

Grif blinked a few times, looking dazed for a moment, before eyeing the beer can Simmons was holding. He sighed. “Alright. How much have you had?”

Simmons looked down at his own drink, tilting it slightly to get a sense of how much was left. “...Almost one.”

“God, you're such a lightweight.” Grif shifted a little away from Simmons, bright pink in the face. He was giving Simmons an obvious out. Blame the liquor and this would never have to come up again.

Simmons opened his mouth to blame the alcohol, but shut his mouth again. He shifted where he was sitting, fingers twisting together nervously. Grif leaned back a little, resting his chin on his hand as he waited for Simmons to say something.

When Simmons didn't say anything for two full minutes, Grif finally broke the silence.

“...Was it the alcohol?”

Simmons slowly shook his head.

“You're not drunk?”

Another head shake before Simmons put his face in his hands.

"Not even a bit."

Another head shake.

“...Then what was that?”

Simmons' mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before full-on panic kicked in. He jumped to his feet, rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

He sat on the floor, back pressed against the door, and twisted his fingers in his hair. Fuck. He'd done it this time. He'd gone and made out with his roommate—AGAIN—and now Grif would probably think that Simmons was going out of his way to try and seduce every member of his family. And he'd probably get grossed out because, well, because Simmons was a guy and that was weird. And now everything was ruined and, fuck. FUCK.

Simmons heard footsteps. After a few moments, there was a knock on the door.

“Simmons. Come out of the bathroom.”

Simmons didn't say anything.

“Simmooooons.”

Silence.

“You can't stay in there forever. That's not where you keep your zombie food stash.”

Fuck, that would have been a better place to hide.

There was a rustling sound followed by munching. After a moment, Grif added, “I'll give you Oreos if you leave the bathroom?”

“Fuck you, fatass, I'm not going to be lured out with food,” Simmons muttered.

“Your funeral.” There was some movement, followed by a quiet thump that suggested Grif had sat against the door as well. “So...”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Dude, if you're gonna lock yourself in the bathroom we have to talk about it before you starve to death.”

Simmons grumbled under his breath, but didn't say anything else.

“Tell me one thing. You're not trying to set up some weird threesome with me and Sister, are you? Because that's gross.”

“What? No!”

“Okay, good. And it's not a fetish for Hawaiian people?”

“No! I mean, okay, I haven't met many Hawaiian people, but… no!”

“Alright, then.” More munching noises floated through the door, before Grif said, “Was that real? I mean… are you, like… you saying you'd tap me? Or just hold hands and kiss and shit if you're insistent on maintaining your obvious virginity?”

Simmons coloured more and laced his fingers together, staring at the bathroom tiles.

"Do you have to be so blunt about it?"

"Subtlety is for losers. So... do you?"

"Uh, well... uh..." Simmons fumbled with his words, twisting his hands together nervously. "Um. Well, I never actually specifically thought that. I mean, you're really not that attractive—"

"Fuck you, I'm awesome," Grif said lightly.

"—and it's not like I have an annoying voice in the back of my head that keeps making really lewd comments whenever you walk around the house naked. Although that's still disgusting and I don't want you putting your bare ass on the sofa, anyway... But... but..."

Maybe the alcohol was loosening his tongue a little, even though Simmons knew it wasn't dictating his actions.

"I... I guess... uh, I guess maybe I kind of look at you and I think, y'know… weird thoughts.”

“Weird? What's weird about the thoughts?”

“Well, because you're a guy. And I'm a guy.”

“So?”

“So that's weird.”

“Nah.”

Simmons wished he could so easily refute years of upbringing with a 'nah.'

“I don't know, Grif, I just… fuck.”

Silence took over again, interrupted only by Grif's munching.

“Alright, fine, if you're gonna be constipated about it,” Grif sighed. There was a rustling noise suggesting he'd put the Oreos down. A pause, followed by another sigh. “Look. I've… had what you'd call weird thoughts, too. I mean, I don't think they're weird. I thought you'd think they were weird, but I didn't think you'd think they were weird in a way that made you think you were weird, too.”

“...You lost me.”

“Point is I didn't say anything because I didn't think you'd be into it, and why fuck shit up? But then, like… dude, you fucking kissed me. And it was awesome.”

Simmons covered his face, even though Grif couldn't see him.

“If that shit meant nothing, then that's fine. I'll live. We'll go back to how we were before. But if… if that meant something to you, as well… then you don't have to hide it. I mean… we could… y'know?”

Simmons did know. He… he still thought it was weird, but Grif didn't. Grif thought it was okay. Fuck, Grif thought it was awesome. And really, that kiss had been… well, it'd been good. More than good.

...Goddammit, couldn't he just have this? At least until Grif realised he'd made a horrible mistake? Couldn't Simmons just pretend he was worth it, just this once?

Simmons got to his feet and unlocked the bathroom door. Grif, having not realised the door was being unlocked, gave a little yelp as he ended up flopping backwards onto the bathroom tiles. The moment he'd realised why he was lying on his back, however, he grinned.

“So…?”

“Alright. We… we can. We can… yeah,” Simmons muttered.

Grif didn't reply. The grin just got wider. He clambered off the tiles and got to his feet, before trudging back to the sofa. His eyes went to the television.

“We missed it,” he said, far too cheerily. The noise coming from it suggested that midnight had hit while they were leaning against the bathroom door.

“Oh. ...Sorry.”

“Ah, fuck it, there's one of these a year, who cares. Not like we're doing anything.” Grif flopped back on the sofa and retrieved his drink. He gestured for Simmons to sit down, and when he did Simmons originally maintained the exact distance he'd been from Grif before the kiss. After a moment they exchanged glances before both shifting closer, and by the time they'd settled Simmons was snuggled up against Grif's chest.

There was still a little voice in the back of Simmons' head, one that sounded like his dad, that said this was weird. But it didn't feel wrong. As far as he was concerned, things had not felt this right in… fuck, maybe ever.

 

* * *

 

They ended up falling asleep like that, and were later woken up by a camera flash.

“Knew it!” Sister yelled happily, running off with the photographic evidence.

It was too early to go chasing after her, so the both of them just made some protesting noises before going back to sleep. If nothing else, Grif's pudge made for an amazing pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

**Tucker**

 

"How am I supposed to do this?"

"Tucker."

“This isn’t the father-son situation I envisioned! I mean, sure, I knew that one of my little swimmers would probably get out there eventually, because, y’know, the ladies love me.”

“I mean… I’d say less ‘love’ and more ‘occasionally tolerate,’” C.T said.

“You are not helping,” Tucker grumbled, as he held Junior in an awkward way that suggested he didn’t know what he was doing yet. Because he didn’t. Wow, he so didn’t. Junior, as if to underline the fact, chose that moment to start wailing, drawing annoyed stares from the other patrons. “Oh god, how do I make him stop?”

“Uh. Bounce him up and down. That’s a thing, right? Why did you even bring him here? This is a bar.”

“Because I don’t know anyone else!”

“So? You think I know how to take care of kids?”

“Sure, you’re a chick, right? That shit’s supposed to be inbuilt so you don’t drop what you pop out.”

“...Alright, in light of the stress you’re under, I’m just going to ignore that.”

As Tucker persisted in panicking, he heard someone approach him from behind, but chose to ignore them in favor of Junior until they tapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re doing that wrong,” the person who’d approached him said.

“Oh, so I suppose you know better?” Tucker grumbled at the stranger.

“Let me try.”

“Oh, fuck no, like I’m handing my kid over to some random stranger in a bar. You’ll steal his kidneys,” Tucker protested, holding Junior a little closer. Junior continued to cry.

“No, Tucker, it’s alright,” C.T said. “He’s okay. And he knows kids pretty well.”

“You’re sure?” Tucker said doubtfully. This guy sure didn’t look like a kid person. Maybe it was the stupid mohawk that gave Tucker that impression. Mohawk stood up straighter, glaring at Tucker.

“I know how. And I want the use of my ears back.”

With one more unsure glance at C.T, Tucker sighed and passed Junior over to the stranger. Over the next couple of minutes, the stranger rocked Junior and, after a minute or so, started quietly singing, so quietly that Tucker couldn’t even make out the words. Junior quieted down very fast, his cries dissolving into the occasional burbling noises instead as he regarded this new person.

“Fucking bullshit,” Tucker muttered under his breath. Turning to C.T, he asked, “Who the fuck is this guy?”

“Oh, him? That’s C.T.”

“No. You’re C.T.”

“I told you over the phone that one time, remember? It’s a shared alias. We’re not the only ones. Long story. But my point is, it’s just as accurate for him as it is for me,” C.T—the one who Tucker still internally referred to as ‘the real one’—said. “He does a lot of work with kids. Not criminal work,” C.T added quickly. “Foster homes and orphanages and stuff. Kids usually like him.”

Mohawk nodded absently, still paying attention to Junior.

“Fine. Then how do I calm down Junior that well?”

“Do I look like I have time to teach you?” Mohawk said coldly. “Take one of those classes with the plastic babies or something.”

“Rude.”

“Why don’t you ask your mother? You told me you still have one,” C.T said. “She raised you okay, didn’t sh—” She paused, then stared at Tucker for a moment before saying, “Okay, maybe not.”

“Hey! You insulting my mother?”

“When we met you were a teenage runaway who’d been conning since he was in diapers. That’s not a good sign.”

“Okay, you know what? I bet she does have advice. I mean, she was a good mother at the start. I think. The alcoholism kind of got to her after a while, but she never, y’know, hit me or nothing.”

“What a ringing endorsement,” Mohawk muttered.

“Screw you.”

“Oh. Before I forget.” C.T reached over the counter and punched Tucker in the shoulder.

“Ow, what the fuck?”

“That’s for making assumptions based on my gender, dick.” C.T grinned at Mohawk. “Thanks for holding the kid so I could do that without the chance of Tucker accidentally dropping him.”

"I aim to please."

"You two are both assholes," Tucker groaned, rubbing his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Turned out that his mother had no ideas either, for a very specific reason.

 Tucker tried visiting her home, and tried to cram down the guilt at the fact that he hadn’t visited in six or so years. He’d visited on occasion in the first couple of years after leaving home, but she rarely seemed to remember much of the visits, so Tucker had eventually just… stopped.

He had never claimed he was a good son.

“I hope you’ll be better at this consistent visiting thing than I am,” Tucker muttered to the little bundle in his arms. Junior, currently in a happy mood, gurgled in return.

On the way to her home, Tucker had gone over this situation in his head and realised there wasn’t that much to worry about. It’s not like he was a single parent, exactly. Crunchbite still had a big part—likely bigger than Tucker’s, given that Crunchbite was the one that made this baby. Somehow. Tucker would really have to try and get a diagram explaining it or something. So if this all got to be too much, he could just dump Junior back in Crunchbite’s arms and pay child support. The ultimate arrangement, except in the version he’d always had in his mind the other parent had been a chick, not a foreign scientist.

He got to his old home, which seemed cleaner and in better shape than the last time he’d seen it. New coat of paint and nicer curtains. He hoped that meant she was doing okay. But when he knocked on the door, a man he’d never met had answered.

Turns out his mother hadn’t lived here in three years.

It took some more digging to figure out where she’d gone. And Tucker really wished he hadn’t thought of the phrase ‘digging’ to describe it.

 

* * *

 

“...Well, fuck. Hey, Mom.”

Talking to a grave was weird.

This whole situation was weird, really.

Had Tucker been so hard to contact? Had no-one thought to tell him that his mother was dead? Apparently not. He could only assume some relatives he’d never heard of had dealt with all the funeral stuff and just let the con artist son do his thing none the wiser.

Shouldn’t he feel sad?

Tucker sat down in front of the grave, rocking Junior slightly. Junior seemed uninterested in the grave and more interested in sleeping. Tucker just stared at the grave with his head tilted.

He was meant to feel sad. This was the only family he’d ever known. And he’d liked his mother well enough, so why didn’t he feel the grief? Maybe a bit of melancholy, but in a way like he’d feel if he was watching a depressing television show. Maybe he felt a little numb in his stomach. Maybe there was a vague sense of loss. But not the sort of grief he’d always imagined.

“Well, I, uh… guess I didn’t visit you enough, did I? Maybe I would have known earlier, if I had.” Tucker shook his head at the grave. “I told you that liver couldn’t keep going, Mom. Uh… fuck, this is weird.”

He rocked Junior lightly, the way he’d seen Mohawk do it. He got a sleepy honk in return.

“This is your grandson. No, I don’t have a wife to introduce you to. No, I didn’t get a random girl knocked up, and no, despite the other dad being… well, another dad… I’m not gay. It’s weird.” Tucker looked down at Junior, before saying, “I guess I don’t actually know his name yet. But I’m just calling him Junior for now.”

This was stupid. It wasn’t like a corpse could hear him.

“You wanna say anything, Junior?” Tucker said flatly.

Junior didn’t respond, face scrunched up in his sleep. A little tuft of blue hair was sticking up. Tucker touched the hair lightly. How was it possible to be a natural blue?

Tucker went silent for a while, watching his son but occasionally looking back at his mother’s grave.

When he was a kid, he’d always wondered where his dad was. Made up stories—largely for himself, although he’d occasionally shared them with more gullible kids—about all the possible things his dad could be, or could be doing. Something to make it seem like there was a good reason for him not to be a part of Tucker’s life. Maybe he was some sort of special agent, or an alien, or something kickass.

Those ideas stopped once Tucker realised—proper realised—what his mother did for a living, and saw the kinds of men that usually visited her. He realised that his dad was probably just one of those men. The daydreams lost their shine after that.

He didn’t really mind not having a dad. But occasionally he had to wonder ‘what if.’

He could leave Junior with Crunchbite and have nothing to do with him, but he didn’t want Junior to wonder ‘what if.’ And if he left Junior behind, he’d have no family at all.

“Sorry for, uh… for not visiting much. And, if you are listening…” Tucker stared at the dirt before saying, “Look, I won’t pretend you were the best mother. But I like where I am now, and… and you know… you did an alright job. Didn’t damage me or nothing. And really, that’s fine, right? You provided, and you did what you could, and… thanks. I… I’m gonna try and pass that favor on to Junior.” But maybe with a bit less liquor.

“So, uh… yeah. That’s what I got.” Tucker climbed to his feet. “I’m just gonna… go now. Bye, Ma. Uh, if there’s an afterlife or anything, I hope it’s good.”

He walked away.

Of course… things were probably going to be difficult. Monetary-wise, he wasn’t sure he had enough to raise a kid. Problem was that conning tended to be sporadic. He could get a proper job, but you know… fuck that. And there was also the fact that he didn’t understand Crunchbite, and the further fact that he still didn’t know shit about kids.

Junior woke up again as he was walking, and started wailing again. Tucker’s instinct was to once again panic, before he tried mimicking Mohawk’s behavior earlier. The rocking didn’t seem to help much on his own, but when Tucker tried the singing Junior quieted down pretty fast. That made sense, since Tucker actually had a decent voice, not like that mohawk asshole.

“Music lover, huh? Let’s hope you got a voice like your dad,” Tucker said quietly.

Yeah… he could make this work. Somehow. He should probably take a class or something, though.

 

 

* * *

 

  **Caboose**

 

 

"Apples! No, no, no, no! Bad kitty!"

Caboose stared up at the tree, and at the orange cat who was sitting in the branches. Looking down at him with a very unconcerned expression.

"You cannot get down from there! Why do you keep climbing up?" Caboose frowned, before hurrying to the tree trunk and starting to clamber up.

A year and a half after the accident, Caboose still hadn't recovered his smarts. Sheila, who he still got to visit sometimes, said that he probably never would. But he could speak again, and sort of understand people. Sometimes he could not understand if he was super sleepy, or if they talked too fast. But he could usually understand the basic stuff.

He was also back to how strong he'd been before the accident. Maybe even stronger. He had not been able to think very good, and he was not able to be very helpful because of it. So he had decided that if he could not think good, he would be able to do things that required being strong and no thinking. Like carrying wood for Papa. He had worked hard to make sure he was strong again. He could not do little things so well anymore, like moving his fingers quickly, but he could do the important things. Like climbing up trees to get silly cats who kept climbing up there.

Caboose clambered halfway up the tree until he was on the same branch as Apples.

"Come here, Apples! Come on!" Caboose reached out to pick the cat up, but she walked out of reach to further near the end of the branch. "No, no, no, no, no, no! Bad kitty!" Caboose edged further along the branch. Apples stared at him curiously, waving her tail slowly. Caboose was getting near when he heard a shriek.

"Mikey, what are you doing?!" Mama screamed. "Get down from there before you hurt yourself!"

Caboose wondered why he would be so stupid as to hurt himself. Then he looked down and realised just how high he was. Maybe that was why.

"I am fine! I am just getting Apples!" Caboose finally reached her and picked her up. Unfortunately, to do this he had to let go of the branch, which immediately caused him to lose his balance and fall out the tree.

The ground was very hard and it hurt.

"Ow," Caboose groaned.

He heard Mama running towards him. She could run nowadays because, for probably the first time in many, many years, she was not at all pregnant. She had stopped having kids since she gave birth to twins a couple of months after the accident. Maybe she thought nineteen children was enough. Maybe she did not want to have to run after even more children, as well as Caboose's younger sisters and Caboose himself. She watched Caboose very closely most of the time, making sure he was not doing anything she thought stupid. Always there. Caboose was not even allowed to leave the house without her, because whenever he did she got scared that he would hurt himself.

"Mikey! Are you okay? Please say you're alright!"

Every injury was treated like that. It was like she thought he was made of glass sometimes, even though he was very strong and had told her this a lot.

"I am fine. And so is Apples. See?"

Apples purred happily and rubbed up against Caboose before climbing off him and padding off to have a nap in the shade.

"Never do that again! Never! You're going to get hurt!" Mama scolded. "Now back inside, go on."

Caboose pouted and walked back towards the house. Mama could be bossy sometimes. But that was okay. She was smarter than him, she knew what was best.

 

* * *

 

That night was noisy. Nights were always noisy, when everyone who still lived at home was crammed into the main room. All of Caboose's older sisters had moved out, but there was still nine younger sisters, plus Mama and Papa. It was probably a good thing his older sisters had moved out, because they could not fit nineteen kids. Plus his oldest sisters had families, too. His eldest sister was actually a grandmother by now. They had a very large family.

At the moment, Caboose was stuck under a pile of cushions. Two of his sisters had decided to build a fort, and he was stuck underneath it because he'd been asleep at the time. That was probably silly of him.

Eventually, Caboose had to move because his legs had gone to sleep without him (his sisters got annoyed at him for disrupting the fort) and he went into the kitchen instead. Mama and his oldest younger sister, Abby, were both dishing up dinner.

"Can I help?" Caboose asked. His mother looked nervous all of a sudden. Caboose wondered why.

"No, that's okay. Go sit in the lounge room, dear. Don't do anything too energetic!"

"But it is very stuffy in there..." Caboose started. Before he could continue, a plate slipped out of Abby's hands. She was kind of clumsy sometimes.

"I got it!" both Caboose and Abby yelled, both jumping forward for the plate.

Caboose had meant to grab the plate. Instead, he had grabbed Abby's arm and crashed into her. All of a sudden, there was a shattering noise as the plate hit the ground, but that was drowned out by Abby screaming and jerking back from Caboose, holding her arm.

"Ow, ow, ow! My arm!" she sobbed. Mama looked terrified.

"What happened? Abby, what happened? Did... Did I do something? I am sorry, I am very sorry," Caboose babbled. "I... I did not mean to do that, I meant to grab the plate... Can I help? Please, I'm sorry, can I help?"

"Michael, stay back!" Mama shouted, moving between him and Abby. "Oh god, I think it's broken. Hang on, dear, we'll take you to the hospital…"

"Can I help?" Caboose asked again weakly.

"You've done enough!" Mama screamed. "Stay out of the way!" After a moment, she realised what she had said. "I'm sorry, Mikey, but... Please, stay out of the way!"

 

* * *

 

_Stay out of the way. Stay out of the way._

Caboose was staying out of the way. That was why he had climbed into the attic. That was out of the way. He could hear his sisters downstairs. Papa had taken Abby to the hospital, and Mama was still finishing up dinner. Caboose sat between a couple of boxes of Bailey's old things, stuff she had not taken with her when she moved.

_I hurt Abby... I hurt her... And Mama... She was so mad, she yelled and I hurt Abby... I hurt her, I hurt her, I hurt her..._

As these thoughts cycled around his head, he heard a meow. Apples had followed him into the attic, and had curled up next to him. Caboose stroked Apples gently.

"You are not shouting at me. Are you, Apples? You did not shout at me for getting you out of the tree. Or trying to help. It was an accident, I did not mean to hurt her..."

_I hurt her but I did not mean it. Mama was mad, she was yelling. She was yelling, but I was just trying to help... Just trying, she should not have been yelling..._

_Why were they so mad at me? They should not have been, they should not have been..._

He was angry. The anger that always came very quickly was there, and he was mad and he didn't notice that the hand that had been patting Apples had clenched and gotten very tight.

Why were they mad? Why were they mad? They should not have been! It was an accident! Why did they not listen? It was an accident!

There was a crunch. It snapped Caboose out of his furious thoughts. He looked down at Apples, suddenly realising how tightly he was holding the cat.

Apples wasn't moving.

"...Apples?"

Nothing. Caboose removed his hand. There was red liquid on them. Cat blood. Caboose looked beyond it, saw what had happened to Apples.

"Apples? Come on, you are okay. Apples, come on! Get up! Get up!" Caboose pleaded. "I am sorry, I did not mean it! Please get up, please!"

Apples did not get up.

"Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no," Caboose said quickly. "Oh no. I... I killed Apples, oh no... Apples, please move, I am sorry!"

"Mikey!" a voice called from below. Mama.

"I am not doing anything!" Caboose yelled in a panic.

"Uh, dear? It's dinnertime."

"I... I... I am not hungry!"

"Are you sure?"

"Y-yes."

"I'll... I'll save a plate for you, okay? I'll come and check on you once I've finished dishing up the food, okay?"

_Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no..._

"That... That is okay, I am going to bed! I am tired!" Caboose yelled.

"Um... I'll still check on you, make sure you're okay. Just give me a few minutes."

_Mama is going to be mad. I killed Apples, I killed Apples, why did I do that?! Why why why why? Mama is going to be mad, everyone is going to be mad..._

Caboose stared down at his own hands before wiping them off on one of the sheets that was covering an old lawnmower that Papa never threw out. Panic was taking over.

He listened to the first impulse that came to mind. He ran. He ran downstairs until he saw a window, and then he climbed out of it.

He ran.

 

* * *

 

Caboose could run for a very long time. He might have run for hours. When he stopped, he had absolutely no idea where he was. He didn't recognise the street, he couldn't even read signs that would tell him where he was. He had no clue. He was completely and utterly lost. He kept walking until he found a tiny little park. Not so much a park as a tiny patch of grass with one tree. He flopped down under the tree, looking upwards. It was dark. It was getting darker. He looked down at his own hands. There was still traces of blood on them. Tears started welling up in his eyes.

What was he going to do?

Caboose curled up under the tree and just started crying. He'd never cried so hard. He'd never felt so terrible, not even the accident had made him this unhappy...

He couldn't go home, not after that. He had no idea where he was, he had no idea where he could go. He'd run off without money or clothes or... or anything... He was stuck. Lost. No idea what to do or where to go. On top of that, he had done some very bad things, he had hurt Abby and he had... had killed Apples. He hadn't meant it, but it didn't matter, he'd still done it...

Of course, one can only cry for so long. It took a long time, but eventually Caboose was reduced to simply sniffing and wiping his eyes. Sometimes crying a lot made him feel better. This was not one of those times.

He did not know where to go. Home? No. To one of his sister's houses? He didn't even know where most of them lived, and they would hear what he had done from Mama, and Mama would find him there. To Dad's house? No. He was not going there as long as he had another choice, and he hadn't seen his dad since yelling at him a year and a half ago. But he couldn't think of another choice, he didn't have anyone outside of his family and... and...

Sheila! Sheila! He could go to Sheila! She was a nice lady, she would understand, she wouldn't hate him for what he had done! He could find her! He could go to her! Sheila would help him!

But he still had no idea how to get there. He did not know the way. But he knew she worked at the hospital. He would go to the hospital. And he did not know the way, but in the movies people did that thing where they got lifts and people took them to places. Hitchhiking! He could do that!

Caboose climbed to his feet and started walking again. He would find Sheila. And then everything would be okay.

 

* * *

 

 

**Donut**

 

“Three points, you dirty whore! Fuck you!”

Donut continued pressing the buttons as fast as he could. Turned out Maine was a damn monster when it came to video games, and Donut had taken it as a personal challenge. It passed the time as well as anything else, and didn’t require many words. Not on Maine’s part, anyway. There were plenty of words on Donut’s part.

“Come on, come on, oh shit, come on--yes, in your face! Oh, you just got burned! Literally!” Donut yelled happily, as his little armored dude on the screen lit Maine’s guy with a flamethrower. Maine growled in response, before reaching over to cover Donut’s eyes with one of those huge hands. “Oh no, no, no, hey, that’s not fair!”

Maine let loose another growl. One with a slightly smug tone to it.

“No, all’s NOT fair in love or war! If that were true we wouldn’t have a Geneva convention. And also, covering someone’s eyes while they try to shoot is a cheap move!”

Maine shrugged as his player hopped into a vehicle in order to flee from retaliation.

It’d been a few weeks. The first two had been awkward and mostly filled with silence. Nowadays, a lot of the time it was still silence. But at least Maine didn’t object to the interior decorating, and if nothing else he was fun to play video games with. He tended to hide whenever Donut had friends over, though.

Donut wondered if Maine had any friends. He didn’t ever seem to go anywhere, and no-one else ever came over. Donut wondered what any existent friends might be like. Were they also bald and scary-looking? Maine wasn’t really that scary once Donut got used to his presence, though. Kind of cuddly-looking, really.

The game ended, with the points very slightly in Donut’s favour. Now that the game itself was over, Donut toned down the yelling, bragging, liberal swearing and accusations of sleeping with people for money.

“Well, that was fun. Hey, I’m gonna finish up the cupcakes I was working on, do you want anything special on yours?”

That got a low growl.

“You’re right. Cats are nice. I’ll put some kittens on yours.” Donut got to his feet and trotted off towards the kitchen.

There were a lot of things Donut liked to use to wind down, and baking was one of them. And applying frosting to cake was his favourite part of the cake-making process. He had mixed up a ridiculous amount of colours for the process. A friend of his was going to have a party, and Donut may have gone overboard. Then again, there was no such thing as overboard when it came to cakes.

Donut picked up the piping bag and went to work. The smell of warm cake had filled the room. This might as well be heaven. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice Maine had wandered in and sat down. It took him until he put a batch of lightish-red cupcakes aside to notice. For such a huge dude, Maine moved so silently.

“Holy crap, how long have you been in here?”

After a moment of consideration, Maine raised six fingers.

“Six minutes?”

A nod.

“Did you want to help?”

Maine shook his head.

“Did you just want to watch?”

Another nod.

“Okie doke!” Donut returned to frosting a new tray of cupcakes.

Now that he was aware that he was being watched, he often glanced at Maine while he was working. Maine was just watching him quietly, mostly focused on his hands as he worked. At all the blobs of sugary colour. He watched with the same attentiveness of an art enthusiast who’d gone back in time to watch Da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa. When Donut finished with some cupcakes for Maine, he placed them on the table in front of him. But next time he looked over, Maine hadn’t touched them. Maine did not touch the cupcakes until Donut was finished frosting.

As Donut put the last of the cupcakes in a box, Maine blinked slowly, as if waking up, picked up the cupcakes Donut had placed in front of him and silently left.

Donut would usually find the cupcakes around the house later, with the top—the part that contained all the frosting—neatly cut off, but the rest of the cupcake left alone. From that point on, Maine always seemed to find his way to the kitchen whenever Donut was playing around with frosting. Always he would watch with that same eerie attentiveness. And always, he would keep the iced parts of the cupcake and discard the rest.

Donut couldn’t ever quite decide if it was unnerving or flattering.


	8. Chapter Six: The Red Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut is returned to the prison. Sarge is obliged to try and find a new doctor. Grif and Simmons finally get out of the shoe. O'Malley sets up a safeguard for his own inevitable stay in the shoe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, nerds.
> 
> Also this chapter is fairly short. Originally there was another scene at the end, but it fit better being part of the next chapter so I moved it over. (This and the next chapter were another 'meant to be one chapter but ended up split due to length' thing.)

Caboose frowned at the door. He couldn't count too well, but he was sure it had been a long time since Donut had last shown up, because he'd gone to sleep a lot since.

"Mister Washingtub! How long has it been since Banana Split was here?"

"For the fifth time today... It's been three days. Now be quiet!"

Caboose curled up a little more, still gazing at the door. Why would Donut not visit him? Maybe he thought it was a silly waste of time. Or maybe he was doing something like working with O'Malley again. Caboose hoped he wasn't, but that would keep him safer, at least... Or maybe he was just busy. No, that was silly. No-one was ever busy in prison. Except Church. Church had also not visited after the first time. He was probably busy. Busy talking to people and doing things that were not very nice, but Church had good reasons to because Church was never wrong. Church not being there didn't bother him as much, because he was used to that. But Donut…

The phone at the back of the infirmary rang, and Wash removed his forehead from the countertop, before getting to his feet.

Donut said he would bring Margretta... Caboose missed having something to cuddle at night, when it was dark and scary and sometimes he thought there were boogeymen under the bed. And Wash would not let him leave to get it because he kept accidentally tearing his stitches. Caboose didn't mean to, he just kept forgetting that he couldn't stretch his arms over his head without the tearing and hurting.

Wash had picked up the phone, and was listening to someone on it.

"You have got to be kidding me," Wash muttered. "You're sure about that? He did bleed a lot. Really? Okay, then. How long will that take?"

Caboose missed his pigeon. And he missed Church. And he missed Donut. He did not like the infirmary. And Mister Washingtub was a bit scary, sometimes. Especially when he got angry.

"You sure we'll be able to support him here? I'll have to figure out where Doc left the IV. ...What's that? ...Don't yell at me like that, I'm not a doctor... No, really. I don't have time to explain, take that up with the warden."

Caboose wondered if it was possible to get Donut to show up with the power of his mind, like in that movie with all the lights and spaceships. But that probably worked better if your brain worked properly and didn't hurt and feel foggy all the time.

"How long will it take to transport him here? Can you take fifteen minutes longer than that? ...No, I just need to fix something first. ...Alright." Wash hung up, started moving around again, taking something out of the cabinet. He did that whenever he was about to give Caboose orange juice.

Caboose did not want the orange juice. He liked orange juice, but lately it always made him very sleepy. He did not want to be sleepy. He wanted to wait for Donut. Maybe Donut was showing up when he was asleep, and he was missing it because he had drunk too much orange juice.

"Drink." Wash handed Caboose a cup of orange juice. Caboose shook his head.

"I am waiting for Donut. I am not thirsty."

"I wasn't asking you. I was telling you. Now drink it." Wash tapped his fingers against the nightstick he was still carrying on his belt, despite his temporary doctor status. Caboose gazed at the nightstick for a moment, before reluctantly drinking the juice.

Some time went by. Wash looked annoyed about something. He kept getting up and pacing. Caboose kept watching the door. He got sleepy, but he tried to stay awake. Just in case. It was getting a little bit difficult, though…

Not long after he started getting tired, Wash checked his watch before getting up again.

"I have to check something. I'll be back within the next ten minutes. Don't leave the cot," Wash said shortly, before opening the door and leaving.

It was the first time Wash had left Caboose alone without locking the door. Caboose blinked at the door a few times, then climbed to his feet. Wash could not stop him from leaving when he was not there. Caboose could go get his pigeon! And maybe he could find Donut! Caboose slipped out the door quickly, just in case Wash came back soon.

The walk to the cells was strange. Caboose was getting very, very sleepy, and he sort of thought that he might have just been dreaming walking down to the cells. Maybe he had already fallen asleep on the way and was just lying around the walkways somewhere…

The cells were quiet. No-one was there. No Church or Tucker. No Grif and Simmons. No Mr. Spaniel. No Donut. It was kind of creepy.

Caboose found his cell. Margretta was lying on the bed, exactly where Caboose had left her the day that O'Malley hurt him. Caboose picked her up and cuddled her to his chest for a few moments, before starting to walk back to the infirmary. He did not want to go back, but Mister Washingtub might yell at him if he didn't. And shouting was never nice. It hurt his ears.

The walk back was tough. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. But he made it back. The door was closed, but Caboose could hear voices.

"Yeah... I think I've got it."

"You can't just get it, people go through training for this. You can't become a doctor just because you can stitch and have been told how to place a drip."

"I didn't exactly choose to be one, you know."

Caboose only recognised Wash's voice. Before Caboose could open the door, it opened in front of him and a man wearing a blue uniform walked out, barely sparing him a glance before leaving. Caboose stepped into the infirmary. Wash was standing over a cot and fiddling with one of those baggies on a stick that hospitals have. Caboose remembered having one of those stuck in him. It was itchy. And on the cot was…

Caboose's insides went very, very cold.

"Candy Apple?"

Wash glanced quickly at him before returning his attention back to the baggie. "I told you not to leave. Get back on the cot and go to sleep."

Caboose barely heard him. He just approached the cot very slowly. If the walk down to the cells had felt like a dream, this felt like a nightmare. Not one of the angry nightmares, like that one when an evil mechanical Santa tried to eat him. It was a lot quieter. Quiet nightmares were the scariest nightmares. And this was even scarier because he wasn't sure it was a dream... He hoped it was, but…

"Caboose..." Wash said warningly.

It only took a few seconds to walk across the infirmary to Donut, but it felt like much longer.

Caboose knelt beside Donut's cot. He heard Wash protesting about something, but it sounded distant. Caboose ignored him.

Donut's eyes were closed. And when Caboose touched his hand, there was no response.

"Pudding? Sherbet?"

His hand was too warm, like it had been kept really close to a heater. That meant that Donut was not dead. Because people who had fallen over were always very cold. But the hand was covered in bruises. Both his arms were badly bruised, and there were stitches in some places. Caboose couldn't have held Donut's other hand, because it was covered in a cast. Donut was wearing one of the nightshirts the hospital made people wear, but there was still bruises around what little of Donut's torso Caboose could see. So many bruises... It was very colourful, but in a really sad way. Donut's hair had been shaved off, and there were bandages on his head, especially on the side. No wonder Donut wasn't responding, he couldn't hear Caboose with bandages covering his ear.

"Cookie Dough?" Caboose said in a louder voice. "Dream Whip? Mooncake? Please wake up."

"He's not going to wake up just because you tell him to," Wash muttered under his breath.

Caboose kept ignoring him. He held Donut's hand tighter, his fingers tracing the bruises lightly. Finally, that made Donut move just a little. He didn't wake up, but his fingers moved just a little.

This was not meant to happen. Donut was meant to be safe. Donut was a nice man and people were not meant to hurt him.

"Caboose. I said get back on the cot. You can't do anything for him, and I don't want you crushing his hand on accident."

"I am not moving," Caboose said quietly. "Not until Custard wakes up."

"He'll be fine! You getting in the way is not going to help," Wash snapped. Caboose looked back down at Donut.

"I am staying right here, Creme Brulee. I will not leave you alone. Not again. I will stay here..."

His eyelids kept drooping, and he did not want them to. Caboose looked downwards. He still had Margretta tucked under his arm. He let go of Donut's hand for just a moment, only to move Donut's arm so he could tuck Margretta under it.

"I... I think you will need something to hug. Margretta is good for that... A-And you need her more than I do..." Caboose shook his head. His eyes were getting watery. "I am... I am really sorry. I was supposed to protect you, and I keep... I keep messing it up... Just like I mess up everything... I'm sorry..." Tears spilled out and dripped onto Donut's hand. Caboose frowned, wiped them off with his sleeve. "And now I am getting your hand wet. Sorry…"

"Back to the cot." Wash stopped fiddling with the bag and attempted to drag Caboose back to the cot. Caboose absolutely refused to budge. He barely even noticed the insistent tugging. Eventually Wash gave up. "Fine. You'll go to sleep soon, anyway."

Caboose stroked Donut's hand gently. "You will be fine. Right, Taffy? ...Please be fine. I... I really need you to be fine... I... I really... I really need you to stay..."

Tears kept trickling down his face, and Caboose tried to get them to stop. He didn't want Donut to see. Caboose's dad... both his dads... had always said that crying was not something men did. It was the only thing they agreed on. But he couldn't stop.

"Please don't leave me... Don't leave me like... like Mama did... She did not listen when I told her to stay... But you will stay. Right?"

Caboose intertwined his fingers with Donut's before resting his head on the cot. He drifted off to sleep while still talking to Donut.

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry, Sarge in is a meeting. Yes. ...Yes, I'll pass on the message." Flowers dropped the phone on the receiver, also dropping his 'secretary' voice at the same time. He and Sarge were not playing cards that day. Sarge had acquired a chess set, and brought it to work. He had claimed he needed to get it out of the house because the wife kept beating him at it. And it was just embarrassing for an ex-soldier to be beaten by his wife at a game that was based around war strategy.

Not that it mattered now. He was currently losing to Flowers.

"Hah. Got your knight, dirtbag," Sarge declared, moving his queen into place. Flowers sighed, before moving his bishop.

"Got your queen."

"Ah, codfish... This game is rigged."

"Phone call from Vic. The hospital told him you have no doctor here. He said 'that's no good, dude' and says that if you don't get one in the next three days that you'll be, and I quote, 'flamed right outta here.'"

"I'll be fired? Damn that two-timing Washington, he must have told the hospital. And not having to pay a proper doctor was doing so much good for the budget." Sarge moved his remaining castle. "Well, maybe we can locate one as incompetent as Doc. That'll give us an excuse to stick with the current pay. And we'll be able to keep clearing out the cells. It'll be perfect!"

"About that... Vic also wanted to know about the unusually high amount of people dying in here."

"Just tell him there was a..." Sarge waved his hand around for a second, pondering excuses. "...a flesh-eating plague."

"Can do. Maybe tone it down a little to a disease less… dramatic?"

"I said flesh-eating plague!"

"Okay..." Flowers moved one of his remaining pawns. "Checkmate."

"Best out of ten! It's rigged! Rigged, I say!"

"I wouldn't do that. Cheating is no fun, Sarge. And two games ago, you're the one who tried changing the pieces when I wasn't looking.”

"Bah. Cheating is a strategy. Welcome to the real world, Girlylocks."

 

* * *

 

"Some news for you, chap."

O'Malley glanced back at Wyoming. "Really? What, then?"

"You've been getting an awful lot of information for free as of late," Wyoming said cheerily. "I think some form of payment would be prudent."

O'Malley scowled, before handing Wyoming a packet of cigarettes. "Fine. Take it." It was no huge loss on O'Malley's part. He'd stolen them from someone else's cell.

"Two pieces of news. First off… I hear that there's pressure on Sarge to find a new doctor. A real one. Though I'm willing to bet Sarge will choose someone incompetent. Why waste funds on the health of criminals, after all. He'll be arriving tomorrow. From the clenching, I suspect you're not taking it well."

"What? Oh." O'Malley hadn't realised his fists were clenched until Wyoming pointed it out. They were clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone white. O'Malley scowled even more before unclenching his hands. That was Doc's position, goddammit. They couldn't just replace him, not if O'Malley had anything to do with it. "What's the second piece of news, then?”

"Young Franklin was returned to the prison, although he is still unconscious. But if he wakes up I'd say you have very little time before the guards throw you into SHU for that little beatdown."

"Hmph." O'Malley scratched his chin thoughtfully. He had told Doc that there would be consequences if he didn't return within the week. He intended to keep that promise, regardless of whether he was in the shoe or not. "In that case... I have something to do."

"Don't let me keep you, then. Cheerio," Wyoming chuckled, before walking off to talk to some potential customers.

If O'Malley was going to get thrown in the shoe, he obviously wouldn't be able to hurt any potential victims personally. He would need someone to do it for him. Wyoming was right out. He preferred not to get his hands dirty. As for Lopez, O'Malley didn't trust him enough to do something like that. He'd already been reluctant when it came to the pastry. He would need time before he was ready to kill on a whim.

No, neither of the usual henchmen were right. He'd need someone else…

O'Malley surveyed the yard quickly. His eyes skimmed over the sea of orange jumpsuits, looking for the person he needed.

His target wasn't hard to spot. He was probably the smallest person inside the walls of this prison, to the point that O'Malley wasn't a hundred percent sure he was even an adult. He was constantly shouting out vaguely biblical phrases at the red flag that Sarge had put up in honor of 'Red Team.' O'Malley didn't know his name. Indeed, no-one seemed to. People just called him the Red Zealot.

At any rate, his name didn't matter. That wasn't what O'Malley needed. The traits that were most important to O'Malley was that the zealot was crazy, violent and easily brainwashed.

He made his way towards the zealot, edging through the crowd and trying to stay away from the guards. Just in case the pastry had already blabbed. The zealot, as per usual at that time of day, was gazing up at the flag and praying loudly.

"Hail, your Flappiness! We thank you for your protection over your devoted legion, and pray that you continue to watch over those of the most holy colour of red…"

O'Malley did his best not to laugh. It was a struggle. But his focus was fairly strong for now. It usually was where Doc was involved. He walked forward until he was right behind the zealot, who was now waving around a cup of orange juice.

"And we dedicate this libation to your Flappiness..." The red zealot prepared to pour the cup of juice on the ground. "...So that when the time of judgement is near, you shall flap directions and guide us all to the promised land."

"That's a pathetic offering," O'Malley said, causing the zealot to jump and spill the orange juice everywhere.

"You dare to commit sacrilege towards our precious offering?" the Red Zealot yelled, at a pitch that O'Malley didn't think possible for any male. "Begone with you, before you suffer the crimson wrath of His Flappiness!"

O'Malley chuckled. "Me? Suffer the wrath? You are the one bringing inadequate offerings to the table." He waved his hand at the spilled orange juice. "For one... That's the wrong colour, you fool! I'm sure the flag doesn't appreciate your lazy attempts at offerings."

"Orange is a shade of red," the Red Zealot said defensively.

"Now, you better listen to this. I'm sure I can help you gain the flag's favour.”

"Gain his favour?" The zealot looked hopeful for a moment, but then a look of suspicion crossed his face. "But you are not among the flag's chosen people. You are not one of the holy colour."

O'Malley pondered this for a moment. "Aren't I? Are you accusing me of being Blue?"

"You shall not speak of such devilry on holy ground!" the zealot screeched.

"Now, now, think about it for a moment." O'Malley reached up, tugged at a lock of his own red hair. "I, uh... bear the holy colour as part of my natural appearance. Surely no Blue would be graced with that?"

The Red Zealot's eyes moved up to his hair. He sounded unsure. "Uh... Well... I suppose that wouldn't... make much sense. It would be against the natural order of the universe which His Flappiness created…" His eyes narrowed again. “But how do I know it is real? How do I know you didn't use trickery?!”

“Trickery? Like hair dye?”

“Precisely!”

“You'll just have to take it on faith.” O'Malley snorted and added, “I draw the line at showcasing my pubic hair for you, so that's your only option. And wouldn't relying on proof diminish the act of faith? Think about what this means, most devoted disciple of the flag. To have been born with the sacred colour... That would indicate that the flag... His Holy Flappiness... was sending you a sign. Right?"

"A sign... A sacred symbol to show me the path..." The suspicion and confusion was leaving the zealot's face, to be replaced with pure religious fanaticism. He immediately collapsed to his knees. "Why did I not see it? I was blind! Blind! Why did I not see the signs? The signs of the holy flag's prophet and speaker!"

O'Malley tried his best not to grin as the zealot continued to rant, now practically flat against the ground in worship.

"Rise. I have orders for you. On behalf of the flag, of course."

"Of course! Tell me what I must do and it shall be carried out!" The Red Zealot climbed to his feet, bouncing back and forth on his feet with excitement.

"Well... You wish to gain the favour of the flag, do you not?"

"I wish nothing more than to bask in the divine light of the flag's shiny pole."

"Indeed. The 'libations' you have been giving the flag are pathetic. What you truly need is a sacrifice."

"A... A sacrifice?"

"Yes... You see, the flag is rather infuriated by certain activities within the prison. In particular..." O'Malley tugged on the zealot's jacket. He had often seen the Red Zealot pilfering various pieces of clothing from where the pastry hung his laundry. "You stole this from one of the Reds, didn't you?"

The zealot stepped back, wrapping the jacket more securely around him. "I did not steal it. I simply borrowed it. His Flappiness does not like his followers to wear dirty laundry. It is an insult to everything he and his silky material stands for."

"That's not the problem here. So, the flag would clearly consider the one who cleans these jackets important, would he not? Being a red and one who washes cloth. He would be somewhat favoured, right?" The zealot nodded seriously. "Well... said person is currently in the infirmary because of a rather vicious attack. It's caused something of an... uh, imbalance in the universe's fabric. Too much favoured blood spilled. This must be balanced out."

"So, I must slaughter one of the Blues! Disembowel him and throw his innards upon the shiny pole so that the flag may bask in the sacrifice!”

"Not quite. The flag demands someone in particular as a sacrifice. Blue blood is not worthy of the holy flag, after all. No, the sacrifice must be someone neutral." O'Malley paused, pretending to think for a moment, before chuckling lightly. "Someone, perhaps, who has not been tainted by this prison. The new doctor who shall be arriving in the near future, for instance. He would be an ideal sacrifice."

"A sacrifice of such pureness... Such an opportunity does not come often in purgatory," the zealot whispered. "Very well! The doctor shall be sacrificed so that we may bask in the divine light of the flag! All hail!"

"Excellent." O'Malley quickly added up the days in his head. "Wait four days. The... uh. The stars will be right, then. Yeah. Stars."

"Yes, O' great prophet! ...Uh. If it is not too great a request..." The Red Zealot's eyes were once again focused on O'Malley's hair, though this time with a sort of fascinated reverence. "May I touch the symbol of faith?"

O'Malley raised an eyebrow, touching his own hair lightly with a frown, before shaking his head. "You are not yet worthy, zealot. Perhaps you can... prove yourself worthy to if you complete your duties. Perhaps."

"Yes, O' great prophet! I shall scrub at the essence of my being and soul until I am deemed worthy."

O'Malley was starting to believe the Zealot was, possibly, one of the more insane individuals he had ever met. But he served a purpose. Wyoming was his ears and eyes. Lopez was his hands and muscle. Now he had someone to act as his knife.

No-one takes Doc's position without his say-so. If Doc was to return, the position must be kept open. By any means necessary.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Wash. Guess what?" York said as he walked into the infirmary, two days after Donut had been returned to the prison.

Wash was in the middle of trying to drag Caboose, once again, away from Donut's cot. Every time he fell asleep, Wash would haul him back to his own cot. A difficult task on its own, he was a huge guy. But then, every time Caboose woke up he would immediately move back again and go right back to holding Donut's hand. It felt like an endless loop. Dragging Caboose back when he was awake, as he was now, was downright impossible.

"Just give me a second. You're in the way, Caboose! Come on—ow." Wash yanked his hand back. "Did you just bite me?!"

"It did not taste good," Caboose muttered. Wash rubbed his hand for a few moments, before turning to York.

"So, what were you saying?"

"Sarge found a replacement doctor. You'll go back to being a guard tomorrow."

"Okay."

York studied his face. "You don't look too happy. But you always look kinda grumpy, so I guess that's normal."

"On the inside I'm dancing with joy, I swear," Wash said flatly.

"Can you dance with joy on the outside?"

"No. Never."

"Oh come on, Wash. Live a little.” He looked over at Donut. “Is he moving at all?”

“Not yet.”

“Sarge was asking about it. Wanted to know who attacked Donut. You know how he gets about the Reds. Plus, I think Donut did his laundry once, that time when his wife kicked him out for a while and he slept in his office for a week. You know who did it?"

"It was O'Malley," Caboose insisted.

"You didn't see that, though. You were in here."

"It is always O'Malley!" Caboose practically screamed, clinging onto Donut's hand tighter. "It is always him! Always!"

"Great. That's the cue for his orange juice," Wash muttered. "But... he's probably right. Just throw O'Malley into the shoe. Or kill him and make it look like an accident. That'd be a more long-term solution."

"Can't solve all your problems with violence, Wash," York sighed.

"Yeah, it won't fix your blind eye. Now, if we'd killed him when he first came in…"

York reached up, defensively covering his bad eye. "Hey, I'm not blind. I can still see with it. It just hurts when I read, that's all. You are always far too interested in hurting people. You scare me, sometimes.”

Wash snorted. "Well, being able to scare people isn't a bad thing." He rubbed his hand a bit more, frowning. "Although it doesn't seem to stop inmates from biting like dogs."

"People taste really icky," Caboose said. This time, he was directing his words at Donut. "Like eating raw steak. Which I only tried once. That was not very nice. That was even worse than how people taste."

Wash massaged his forehead for a moment. "Great... Definitely time for orange juice, before I have to listen to another three hours of him rambling to Donut about whatever comes to his mind."

"Well, I think I read somewhere that talking to people when they're in comas is recommended."

"Maybe under normal circumstances, but if I was listening to that then I'd just want to stay unconscious even more," Wash said.

"Ouch, Wash.”

 

* * *

 

"Alright, you two can go—ugh, guys, I said stick a sock through the slot or something so I know when you're doing your thing." North quickly turned his back. "Put some clothes on. Then you can leave."

"Overreaction, much? We've still got our underwear on," Grif complained. "Why'd he have to interrupt just when it was getting good."

"Grif. Get your hand out of my pants," Simmons muttered. He'd gone bright red, as he tended to do whenever one of the guards opened the door, normally to deliver food, and spotted them boning.

"But it was getting good... Fine, be that way. To be continued."

After quickly getting dressed and kicked out of the shoe by North, Grif and Simmons made their way back towards the cells. It was quiet, and no-one was around except for Lopez, who was sitting on his cot and flicking through a book.

"Hey, Lopez. Where the hell is everyone?" Grif asked.

" _The cupcake and the idiot are in the infirmary. The others are in the yard._ "

"Haven't seen them, huh? Okay, whatever."

" _Why ask if you're not going to listen?_ "

"Let's go check the yard." Simmons sniffed at his jacket, then wrinkled his nose. "Need to find Donut. He's better at getting the stink out of clothes."

"Yeah, but only because it always smells perfumed afterwards."

"Point taken, but it's better than just smelling bad."

"I dunno. Smelling like lavender is more likely to get you beaten up.”

They debated the pros and cons of smelling like a girl all the way to the yard. When they got there, they couldn't see Donut anywhere. They only saw Church and Tucker sitting in the corner of the yard, talking.

"Hey. Douchebags!" Grif called out as they got closer.

"Yeah, nice to see you, too," Tucker said. Church's response was just an annoyed grunt.

"Where's Donut? You seen him?"

"Shit, you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

 

* * *

 

"Take the orange juice."

"No."

"Take it."

"No."

"Caboose. I will knock you out."

"I am not drinking it. I am not moving. And there is nothing that you can do about it."

"There is plenty I can do about it. Don't make me pepper spray you."

This continued back and forth between Wash and Caboose, Wash still holding out the cup of orange juice. Caboose's glare was getting rather intense. Even with his somewhat dysfunctional brain, he was starting to get a bit suspicious about the constant offerings of orange juice and the subsequent sleepiness.

"I do not want to drink it. You are going to put me back over there when I get sleepy. And I do not want to. I want to be here with Rocky Road. He needs me to be here."

"Somehow, I don't think someone holding his hand so tightly that it's probably preventing the blood from flowing is something he needs. Now drink the orange juice!"

"No!" With that, Caboose lashed out and slapped the cup out of Wash's hands, splattering the contents all over the floor.

In one swift movement, Wash grabbed Caboose's head and jerked him forward, at the same time pulling the pepper spray out of his belt and holding the nozzle just an inch from Caboose's eye, finger hovering right over the spray button. He would have sprayed immediately if it were any other inmate. But admittedly it felt a little mean to do so to Caboose.

But he also really wanted Caboose to just drink his damn orange juice.

"Let go. Or I will spray this entire can in your eyes."

Caboose hesitated for a moment, but then he shook his head. He seemed more discomfited than afraid. "No."

“I said. Let. Go.”

“No! I am not listening to you because you are a mean man!”

"He's got you there," mumbled a slightly raspy voice.

"Don't interrupt, Donut," Wash said dismissively, before pausing. "...Wait."

Donut shifted a little, like he was going to try and sit up, but even just shifting seemed to take too much energy. He let out a low whine and muttered, "God, that... stings..."

"Pecan Pie!" Caboose yelled happily. "You are awake!" He squirmed out of Wash's grip, which had slackened slightly when he realised Donut was no longer unconscious, and practically threw himself at Donut, hugging him. Although he stopped once Donut hissed in pain at the contact. "Oh... sorry."

"S'fine." Donut's eyes kept shutting, and it was taking an obvious effort to keep them from staying that way. "...Am I dead?"

"Hardly," Wash said shortly.

"Did O'Malley hurt you? He hurt you, didn't he? He always hurts people," Caboose said, fidgeting with his hands. Donut looked puzzled for a moment.

"Attacked? I don't... it's kind of fuzzy, there... yeah, he was... he was there? I remember he was there, and... and then everything was bright and soft, and you were there, Wash. ...I thought you were an angel or something."

"...Right. Well, I'm taking that as an eyewitness account. Now I have grounds to throw O'Malley in SHU."

"Okay," Donut said sleepily. "You do that."

"Also I have to ask if you're about to die or need painkillers."

"...Sounds good."

"Which? Dying or painkillers?"

"Second one. Duh." Donut moved the fingers on his undamaged hand, then tried to move the fingers on his damaged hand and frowned. "Can't feel 'em."

"Apparently that's temporary. Stop wiggling it, it's in a cast for a reason. The other hand's Caboose's fault. Probably cut off the circulation, clinging to your hand like he was." Caboose looked at the floor, looking ashamed. "Stay there. Don't die while I get your painkillers."

"Alrighty."

Things went silent after that, as Wash retreated to the medicine cabinets. Caboose rocked back and forth a little, staring at Donut with concern. Donut was mostly thinking 'oh god this hurts.' Everything hurt from the waist up, especially the side of his head. He thought he might be able to move his legs in theory, but doing so shifted his torso, and that sent bolts of pain through his stomach. The attack was still fuzzy, although little details were drifting back to him.

Donut really hoped it would stay fuzzy a while longer. This was something he didn't want to remember, but he felt like he wasn't going to be so lucky.

He was halfway to drifting back to sleep when Caboose finally spoke.

"I am very, very sorry."

Donut blinked sleepily before gazing at Caboose, who was still looking ashamed. "What are you sorry for?"

"I made your hand all non-feely with the hand-holding. I thought I was doing some good. But it was not good."

"Don't worry about it. It was nice. I think." Donut twitched his fingers a little. "Actually... I think it might make me feel better, right now."

Caboose reached out, touched his hand lightly again before twisting their fingers together gently. "I am still sorry... I was supposed to protect you. But all I did, even when I was here, was talk about how I was supposed to protect Church... And now Church is fine, but you are hurt... I did not protect you and I am very sorry. You can... get mad at me now. If you want."

"I'm not mad. Don't apologise. You were up here, you couldn't have done anything." Donut's rubbed his fingers softly against Caboose's own. It was the most he could really move that hand at the moment. "Were you talking to me, when I was out? Because... I think I kept hearing things. Something about cats."

"Yeah... I talked a lot. I thought you might wake up if I talked to you. Did it work?"

"I... I don't know. But it made me feel better." Donut smiled a little. "No nightmares, that was for sure. Which for a five-day nap is pretty good. There were good dreams. I think the talking helped."

Caboose shifted, moved closer to Donut and hugged him again, this time much more carefully. It barely hurt that time. Caboose rested his forehead on Donut's for a brief moment, eyes shut, before pulling back and returning to his seat next to Donut's cot. "I am happy, then. Happy that you feel better, and that I was not... completely useless. Do you want me to stay here? I can go back to my cot if you want me to."

"Stay.”

“Okay.”

Donut fell asleep soon after that. If he had any bad dreams, he didn't remember them later.


	9. Chapter Seven: Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif and Simmons visit Donut, and decide to that something needs to be done to stop anything like this happening into the future. Caboose shares some things with Donut to try and make him feel better.

Wash could not figure out how Doc put up with being the prison doctor for years, when he was sick of it after less than a week. Hell, he'd been sick of it fifteen minutes in. He had to remind himself, numerous times, that murder was illegal and would land him in an orange jumpsuit. Or back in the mental hospital. Although the hospital might have been a relief compared to this.

When Wash was thinking of the mental hospital in a longing sense, that was a definite sign that his mood had sunk to rock bottom.

His hope had been that Donut waking up would end Caboose's streams of meaningless conversation. Turned out this was a false hope. Even though Donut had fallen asleep again, Caboose just wouldn't. Shut. Up. Like he was afraid that if he stopped talking Donut's heartbeat would just stop, or something similarly ridiculous.

"And... and so then, Church said that Santa Claus does not exist. But I think he just does not like to visit prisons. People in prisons are always on the naughty list. Also, Santa needs chimneys. Or at least a window. But we do not have many windows, and they all have bars on them. Also, they will not let us leave cookies out for him. I tried, but they would not give me cookies.”

"What about we play the quiet game?" Wash asked, head still in his hands.

There was hammering at the door.

"Hey, let us in! We just wanna check something, come on."

Wash sighed and placed his hands over his own ears. Which was probably somewhat childish, but Wash was just tired of people annoying him. "If you're not injured, go away!"

"Come on, don't be a douche."

Donut's eyes opened a little.

“Grif?” he croaked.

“Oh, that was totally him,” Grif's voice said from the other side of the door. “He sounds like shit, though.”

“That's better than dead, at least,” Simmons' voice said, obvious relief in his voice.

This was followed by more knocking against the door.

“I really want to play the quiet game,” Wash mumbled. Caboose climbed to his feet to open the door, and Wash snapped, “Don't open that!”

“But not answering the door is rude,” Caboose said.

“Ugh.” Wash massaged his forehead for a moment. "You know what? I don't care. Do what you want." He strode to the door, swung it open and ignored the two inmates who quickly slipped in. “You two, don't kill anyone! But if you do, it's not my fault. Nothing in my job description says 'babysitting injured inmates.' I'm going to find someone better suited to that, alright?”

Fuck this. He could find someone else to watch them. North had a better temperament for this, anyway.

 

* * *

 

"You look like shit," Grif observed.

“Wow, Grif, your powers of deduction are just… amazing,” Simmons said dryly.

“Fuck you, dude.”

Despite the casualness of their banter, both of them were staring very closely at Donut, taking in the bruises, stitches and bandages. It was a little unnerving to be on the receiving end of those stares.

“S'fine. Painkillers.” Donut wiggled the fingers on his undamaged hand. It didn't hurt this time around, although they felt a little… floppy? “Not important.”

“Donut, someone nearly killed you, that's pretty fucking important,” Grif said.

“Don't want to think about it.”

“Donut, who—“

“You didn't tell me!”

“...Tell you what?”

“You. Simmons.” Donut crossed his fingers. “Tight. Super tight. Tight-tight.”

“Stop saying tight,” Simmons said.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Grif said, tossing his hands in the air. “Look, honestly, are you still on about that? We just assumed you knew. Even Caboose figured it out, even if it took him walking in on us while we were—“

“They were making sex,” Caboose interrupted.

“Am I the only one who didn't know?!” Donut wailed, although he couldn't reach the volume normally necessary for a good proper wail, so it just sounded like air leaving a balloon.

“Oh my god, Donut, of all the things you want to talk about?” Simmons sighed.

“Look, not important. Just tell us who hurt you, Donut. Alright?” Grif asked.

Donut let out a low whine before muttering, “Don't want to think about it.”

“Donut.”

“It was O'Malley,” Caboose said. “He is a very mean man and someone needs to crush his face.”

“O'Malley? Isn't that the asshole who was bugging you like five years ago? The fuck does he want this time?!”

Why'd they have to keep asking him? Donut didn't want to remember, but details were floating back to him. Arms behind his back.

“I thought… I thought Lopez was fine. I thought we were getting friendly. I didn't… I didn't...”

“Lopez, too? Seriously? I mean, that O'Malley asshole isn't a surprise, but Lopez?” Grif asked. "He seemed pretty on the level, though he did have that Latino temper thing going on. But he really did that to you?"

“I… no. He just… held. Didn't… he didn't...”

Images. Memories. O'Malley grabbing his face and picking an ear and screwdrivers don't cut well—

“I don't want to talk about this,” Donut mumbled. He shifted his undamaged arm. It was easier now that the painkillers were working. “Did they reattach…?” He reached up and touched the side of his head, and felt thick bandages. There was no bump where his ear should be under the bandages. “...Oh.” Energy expended, his arm just flopped onto the pillow.

Grif opened his mouth, possibly to ask more questions, but Caboose reached up and pressed a hand against Grif's mouth.

“No more questions. You are making Puff Puff upset.”

Grif batted Caboose's hand. “Ugh, don't touch my face, what's wrong with you?”

“We're just trying to figure out what happened, Donut,” Simmons said.

“I… I know. Don't want to talk about it.” Donut stared at the ceiling for a moment before shutting his eyes. “Tired.”

“Alright, alright, we get the hint,” Grif grumbled. “Don't die while you're up here.”

“Yeah, otherwise no-one will clean Grif's underwear properly ever again and he'll stink out the entire row,” Simmons added.

Donut still had his eyes shut, but he felt both of them give his calf—pretty much one of the only areas they could touch without hurting him (or without them qualifying it as 'a weird place to touch a dude you're not banging')—a friendly pat. He smiled slightly.

“I'll try.”

 

* * *

 

The walk back to the cells was fairly silent for a while. Grif was the one to break the silence.

“That's fucked.”

“It's so fucked,” Simmons agreed.

“He could barely move. And it's fucking weird to see Donut not moving. Normally he's so… y'know. Bouncy. Spring in his step and all that.”

“Yeah. Yeah...” Simmons trailed off, before shutting his eyes and stopping. “Fuck.”

“What?” Grif stopped walking as well.

“I was about to say 'well, at least the guards will punish them' but the last time I said something similar to that, you argued, and then we ended up murdering someone. No.”

“Okay, I hadn't said we should murder anyone yet. Sure, I was thinking we need to kick a couple of asses at least as hard as they kicked Donut. But I didn't say murder. I never said murder. Murder was never the intent, even the last time this happened,” Grif protested.

“Grif, seriously, let's not do this again.”

“Dude, they'll spend some time in the shoe. Big fucking whoop. That's not a punishment. We were just in there for a week! And we were fine!”

“Yeah. But we were fucking. They won't have that. Probably. I mean, I think Lopez has a wife, but fuck if I know what he's into on the side.”

“Alright, alright, true. But… fuck.”

Grif started walking again. Simmons sped up for a moment to catch up to him, and they walked in silence for a bit.

“Yeah, alright, maybe violence was bad the first time. But this is different. Prison has different rules,” Grif said after a while. “If we just let them fuck with Donut, they'll think it's… you know. Open season on Donut. Really, we should scare them off now. Make sure people know he's off-limits.”

“Shouldn't we have done that after Miller kicked the shit out of him?” Simmons pointed out.

“Hey, he was newer then. We hadn't been around him so long. No obligations and shit. Now, y'know… he's one of us. He's our friend, so we need to do this shit right. Right?”

Simmons let out a long, annoyed sigh. “...Yeah. You're right.”

“Hell yes I am.”

“But if we're doing this, no kicks to the head. Probably limit punches there, too. Like, sure, maybe break his nose a little. But… you know, we can't go overboard.”

“I'll keep my cool, okay? Just do the same.”

“I dunno what O'Malley looks like, so let's deal with Lopez first. But he looks tough. We need to get the jump on him. And he knows we're friends with Donut. So if we go and try to lure him into a secluded area he's going to get suspicious.”

“So your solution? You're the nerd, so you gotta have the plans. I'm better at pointing out the flaws in other people's plans.”

“...I guess we need help. Someone who has no reason to help Donut. Or even better, someone who actively dislikes him, so they'll be no reason to suspect he's helping us get payback.”

They looked at each other for a moment before both saying, “Tucker.” Although Grif followed it up with a noise of disgust.

 

* * *

 

North turned up in the infirmary not long after Grif and Simmons left. Donut was still awake, despite attempts to sleep, and Caboose still hadn't moved from his bedside.

“Wow, York was not kidding when he said you looked battered,” North said. “How're you doing?”

“I can't fully appreciate showtunes any more,” Donut sighed. He hadn't moved his hand back down, and occasionally his fingers would slightly stretch out to touch where his ear used to be.

“Man, I'm sorry. Uh… do you need any immediate medical attention?”

“Don't think so.”

“Great, because I have no idea how to do anything. I tried to tell Wash that being paternal is very different from having medical training, but he just threw the keys for the infirmary at me and said 'you deal with it.' But, uh… yeah. I'm just going to sit over there. And if you need me, just… well, I'll be right there?”

North shrugged and moved to claim Wash's vacated seat. Donut stared at the ceiling in silence. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep and wake up in his cell with both ears still present.

“It could be worse,” Caboose said quietly.

“I know, I… I know. Could have died, didn't die. But it's… it's not comforting at the moment.”

"No. Not like that. I meant... I meant that you could have lost other things." Caboose kicked his feet a little, thinking, before reaching out to grasp Donut's wrist. Donut thought he was going in for a hand hold, but instead Caboose slowly moved Donut's hand upwards and placed it on his own head, so that Donut's fingers were resting lightly on the right side of his head. “Can you feel it?”

Donut had no idea what Caboose was talking about, but he pressed down very slightly with his fingers. Underneath the hair, he could feel lumps of scar tissue here and there. His fingers curiously traced the scars for a moment, but Caboose looked very uncomfortable when he did so, and so Donut stopped pressing down. After a moment, Caboose moved Donut's hand back to the bed.

“What… what happened?”

"I hit my head very hard once. It was... It was..." Caboose paused, deep in thought, before he finally said, "It was… two years before… before I got put here. I was… I was driving. There was another car and it was in the way, and I tried to avoid it and I hit a tree instead.

“I could not wake up for a while. And when I did, everything was different. I could not… the thoughts did not come out right. The words wouldn't happen for a while, and when they did they were slow and… and not right. I did not recognise myself in mirrors. And… and I got angry, sometimes.” Caboose scraped his foot across the floor moodily. “I was… I was too different. And it made things really hard for… for Mama and for… for everyone. Because I was not… I was not the Mikey they knew.”

Donut tried to think of something to say in reply to that. He'd never really considered the fact that Caboose had once been… not like this. He couldn't even picture Caboose any other way, like trying to picture an energetic Grif or a prudish Tucker. It just didn't process.

“Caboose, I… I'm sorry. But… but I don't really understand why you're telling me this. I mean, I'm glad you… you trust me enough to tell me, but I… I don't know, I'm just...”

“Sorry, I… I meant to say. O'Malley hurt you. And that is bad. But I… I got very scared. Because you did not wake up for a while… and I thought maybe you would not wake up, like Mama, or you… you might wake up, and you might not be… you. But he did not… he did not take away what… what makes you Donut. And that is good. And so it could… it could be much worse. Because you are still you.”

Donut thought about it. After thinking about it, he nudged Caboose's hand lightly with his own. Caboose took the hint and held Donut's hand again.

“...I do not know if that made you feel better,” Caboose said.

“Neither do I,” Donut admitted. “But… I mean, yeah. I… I guess you're right.”

He supposed it was only an ear. Even so. He resisted the urge to try and touch where the ear had used to be.

He'd already lost his freedom five years ago. He'd lost an ear. He wondered how much more this place could take, and how much he could lose before, as Caboose said, he stopped 'being Donut.' O'Malley might not have caused as abrupt of a change as Caboose had experienced, but this place had still brought on change. Certainly he wasn't quite the same person he was five years ago.

He appreciated Caboose's attempt to feel better, but now he just felt disquieted.

 

* * *

 

"Why did you think I'd agree to this?"

Grif and Simmons had dragged Tucker away from Church (Church's response had been a mildly confused but mostly apathetic grunt) and told him what they wanted. Tucker was now staring at them like they were idiots.

"Uh. Well, had to try?" Grif said.

"You could have gone to pretty much anyone else. Why you annoying me about this?"

"Because you hate Donut. Lopez won't have any reason to suspect you're helping him, because there is no logical reason you would."

“I do hate Donut,” Tucker admitted, rubbing the scar on his face. “But seriously, that gives me even less reason to agree. Why the hell did you think I would?”

"Uh. Uhhhh, well—“

“Fuck it, I'll do it.”

"...Wait, what?"

Neither Grif nor Simmons had expected Tucker to agree so easily. Normally, a lot of haggling was required if anyone wanted Tucker's help with anything, unless that person was Church or someone with a great rack.

Tucker shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? I like keeping expectations shaken up. Besides, I got reasons. But.” The grin dropped off his face. “How you gonna stop him from squealing? Because if your best answer is 'hope for the best' then you can stick this plan up your—“

“We'll just tell him we'll come back and cut off his dick if he squeals,” Grif said dismissively.

“Doesn't always work.”

“Well, none of the guards understand Spanish, anyway. Not that I know of.”

“Hah. True. But just in case… I mean, I gotta cover my ass here...” Tucker pondered for a moment. "Would there be any reason you could think of for beating me up, too?"

"You kept hitting on Sister," Grif said immediately.

“Wow, and that's worth a beating? Harsh. But alright, whatever. I'll lure out Lopez. Lead him past where you two are. You guys jump out like fucking ninjas. Maybe punch me once for good measure, just for… you know, authenticity.”

“I like this plan already,” Grif said.

“But don't hit me in the torso. Area's mad sore. You can go for the face if you try not to break anything, because this is the money maker.”

"After that, focus on him. Do your weird revenge. Then just be all 'now we gotta punch Tucker some more, so get lost.' Or knock him unconscious, either way. We do all that, I can help you without any chance of being squealed on."

"Sweet. Can you do this now? I wanna get this out of the way before dinner," Grif said.

“Hah, typical. But sure. I know a place. There's this room near the library that's usually pretty empty—sometimes it's used as kind of a religiousy room, the Zealots used to use it at this time until they got banned from splattering orange juice all over the floor and tackling the person who tried to clean it up. Anyway, it's locked, but the lock is shitty and the door can be jimmied open pretty easily.”

“We're gonna punch people in a church?”

“It's a room with like three chairs and a box of random religious shit, dude. It's less of a church than, well, Church is. Who cares? Besides, guards are getting real suspicious about people always using the laundry room for this shit. Anyway, find something to tie him up with—dude looks jacked—and just wait. Give me fifteen minutes and I'll deliver.” Tucker flapped his hands at them. “Get moving.”

They quickly left, chatting once they were out of earshot of Tucker.

“Didn't think he'd be so easy to convince,” Simmons said.

“You complaining?”

"Not really. Just wondering if Tucker's got some weird ulterior motive that's going to bite us in the ass.”

"Meh. We'll deal with that when it happens.”

 

* * *

 

Lopez had retreated to his cell to read a book he'd found in the library. It was proving duller than the cover had promised. He was reading a line of prose that was so painfully stilted that he was sure it had been processed from English to Spanish and then back to English by Google Translate, when someone appeared outside his cell.

"Hey, Lopez. Guess what I heard."

Lopez looked up. It was the scarred man. What was his name? Tucker? He talked a lot. Always hanging around with the blackmailer. Annoying, but that described the entire row.

" _What do you want?_ ”

Tucker invited himself into the cell. "I heard that you—" Tucker prodded him cheerfully in the chest, ignoring the withering look Lopez sent his way. "You kicked Donut's ass, didn't you?"

Lopez's insides squirmed nervously. He'd been trying to blank the incident out. Tried to remember that he had to do it, had to to keep O'Malley's protection from the big idiot. But what O'Malley had done… and that disturbing grin that he'd been wearing as he'd dug through the flesh and cartilage bit by bit. A screwdriver was not something used for slicing. It had taken O'Malley a long time, and the screaming... the screaming had been horrific. Even though O'Malley had ordered Lopez to keep Donut quiet. Clasping a hand over his mouth only muffled the screams. It didn't silence them.

" _I did no such thing. I didn't harm the fruity one._ " It was technically true.

"Alright, I'll admit I can't understand you. The only Spanish I know is some stuff I learned to pick up girls. It gets them almost as much as French does. Both are very romantic languages. But in the case of Spanish, turned out I was just talking about grapefruit. Still got me laid, though."

" _Both you and whoever you seduced with lines about grapefruits are idiots._ "

"But my point is... The damage you did to Donut was pretty damn impressive. Would have liked to be there, myself. Donut's a douchebag, and that beating was something he'd long since had coming." Tucker reached up, touched the scar on his face. "This is partly his fault, you know? He's done some nasty stuff in here. He's got Church giving him protection through blackmail, you know?"

" _Really? He looked rather innocent and useless._ " Lopez's conscience stopped bugging him for a moment. He hadn't heard anything like that about Donut before.

"Anyway... me and Church could use a guy like you. You've been hanging around with... what's his name... O'Malley, right?" Tucker tutted under his breath. "That's not a good idea. He's crazy."

" _I've noticed._ "

"Now, Church has connections. He can get you protected much better than O'Malley can. Only people O'Malley can protect you from are from anyone dumb enough to listen to him. A lot smaller number than he's probably made it sound. Also Caboose, I guess, but only because Caboose is shit scared of him." Tucker grinned lazily. "But Church? You help us, he'll provide much better protection. From nearly everyone. O'Malley will just make people madder at you."

There seemed to be truth in that. Lopez couldn't imagine O'Malley being a very protective person. O'Malley was intimidating and insane. But that didn't equal protection. That just equalled danger.

"What do you say? Church is in the library at the moment. If you want to discuss this further, I think that's the best place to do it."

Lopez considered Tucker an idiot, just like the others. But he made sense. And while Lopez had been determined early on not to accept any deals from Church, when Donut asked him... well. Circumstances had changed. Ohhh, how they'd changed.

" _I will listen to what he has to say,_ " Lopez said, standing. Tucker clearly didn't understand the words, but he understood the nod.

"Great. Man, you won't regret this. Seriously, I've been in here for ten years now... And considering the shit I do, I've been hurt a lot less than I should have. There was the Miller incident, of course, but that was solved when Caboose broke all his fingers. He won't be doing that shit again...”

Tucker steered Lopez towards the library, one arm clasped around his shoulder, talking cheerfully. Lopez only half listened. Many of the stories Tucker told had been ones Donut told him. Horror stories about what had happened to inmates who didn't make the smart choice of accepting protection.

Tucker, arm still wrapped around Lopez, was explaining the finer details of one of the first riots he'd seen when something hit Lopez in the back of the head. Lopez heard Tucker yell at the same time, although the yell was quickly muffled, but he was too shaken by the blow to really see what had happened. His vision swam for a moment, and he felt someone grab him from behind.

"Tie him... uh, them... up."

Lopez attempted to move, but someone had grabbed his arms, twisted them behind his back while he was dazed. He felt something being tied around his wrists, and then he was shoved into the nearest room. He recognised their attackers. Those two who were big on pillow talk. The thinner one, Simmons, was adjusting some of the knots binding Lopez. The bigger one, Grif, was doing the same to Tucker, who was whining pretty loudly.

"The hell you doing? What the fuck, you—" Tucker was silenced by Grif punching him in the face.

"Shut up, Tucker." Grif nodded his head at the nearest door, behind Lopez. "Should I move him?" When Simmons nodded, he pushed Tucker out of Lopez's sight. Lopez meant to look behind him, but Simmons grabbed him, kept him facing away. Normally, Lopez could easily fight Simmons off, but not with his hands bound like this. Once Grif had shoved Tucker into the corner (Lopez heard another thwacking noise and Tucker grunting in pain before swearing at them both) he moved to grab Lopez, while Simmons moved in front of him and crossed his arms.

"So. Uh, Lopez, isn't it?" Simmons fidgeted a bit, though he was clearly trying to play himself off as cool and intimidating. "You just got here, right? So you haven't been here long enough to know about the kind of shit you're dealing with."

" _I didn't hurt_ _Donut_ _,_ " Lopez insisted.

"No use making excuses to us. We've heard excuses before, do you think you're telling us anything new? Even if it's in Spanish? Listen. You hurt a friend of ours. And even you should know that's something you don't do in prison without consequences."

"Fuck yeah," Grif muttered. Lopez tried to jerk out of the larger man's grip, but the only response that got was for Grif to twist his arm more painfully. At the same time, Simmons pulled his fist back and hit Lopez hard. He was a lanky guy, but he'd put a lot into that punch. Lopez didn't make any noise of pain, but he sure felt it.

"Can't speak English, huh? Then can you understand it? Can you understand English?" Simmons said the last sentence in a slower, exaggerated voice.

" _That doesn't actually help me understand it. But yes. Yes, I can understand English._ " Lopez mirrored the slow, exaggerated tone.

"I'll tell it to you simply, cockbite. We're sending you up to the infirmary, and you're gonna apologise to Donut yourself once you're up there."

"Don't mistake that for the worst case scenario or anything, though," Grif said. "You don't listen to us and we'll even the score properly. I mean, Donut lost an ear. This isn't nearly equal. Is it, Simmons? You're the math nerd. Do you think a beating equals a missing ear?”

"Nowhere. Fucking. Close."

"Right." Grif gave Lopez's ear a quick pat. "If you don't listen then we'll remove your ear, too. Even make it the same one. Only fair. And in case you doubt that we have the guts... why don't you ask the last guy we went after?"

"I mean, it'd be pretty difficult," Simmons added. "You can probably guess why. But if he'd lived, he'd tell you that we fucked him up.”

Lopez stared Simmons down. There was not an inkling of pity or guilt in his eyes, and he knew Grif probably had the same look, even if he couldn't properly see it. An hour ago he'd considered them nothing but idiots. He still thought they were idiots. But he'd forgotten that they lived on the murderer's row for a reason.

"Run him through the terms, Simmons," Grif said.

"The circumstances for keeping all your body parts are as followed." Simmons raised one finger. "First off. You do not touch Donut again. Secondly. You do not tell the guards what happened. I don't care what excuses you give for the beatings, or care what you tell them. But you do not mention us. At all."

"The third thing?" Grif spoke up from behind him. His voice was very close to Lopez's ear, and even though he was speaking quietly Lopez heard every word. "Concerning that douchebag O'Malley? You don't tell him shit. You don't warn him at all.

“You break any of these three rules, we'll remove your ears. Your eyes. Your tongue. Any body part you'll miss. We'll even cut off your dick. Pretty sure your wife would find that disappointing.”

Lopez said nothing, only staring back.

"Follow those three rules, and we let you out with no permanent damage. Probably. Just a severe beating. You'll leave and never mention this to anyone again," Simmons said. "Do you agree? Or will we have to rip your ears off right now?"

Lopez wasn't stupid. He nodded once.

"I'm going to assume you were agreeing with the conditions and not us ripping your ears off. Grif, swap. You're a harder hitter," Simmons said, gesturing. He and Grif swapped places, so that Simmons was the one holding his arms behind his back. As they swapped, Lopez saw them exchange a fist bump. And then Grif was standing in front of him, cracking his knuckles.

"This is the kind of exercise I can actually get behind," Grif said, teeth gritted, before delivering a fist to Lopez's stomach.

Lopez did his best, through the entire beating, not to let out any noises of pain. There were a couple of times he couldn't help it, but nothing more than a small grunt or gasp escaped. Lopez would keep as much pride as possible intact.

Occasionally, Grif and Simmons would swap places again. Grif was definitely a harder hitter, but Simmons' blows were both thoughtful and vicious, like he took a moment to figure out what would hurt more. He'd probably googled anatomy once or twice. Grif just punched wherever. Usually what was easier to reach. Lopez kept his eyes closed the entire time, but he could always tell who was hitting him.

The beating just went on and on. But, despite the fact that he was very much not enjoying it, he couldn't help but feel that it was fair. More than fair. He may have not hurt Donut with his own hands, but he'd helped. At least there were no screwdrivers involved here. At least he got to leave relatively intact.

After an eternity, there was a pause. Then one punch to the face. They'd left that area alone for the most part, but that last punch likely broke his nose. Lopez could feel blood streaming out of it. When he opened his eyes, Simmons was fiddling with the cloth that was binding Lopez's arms. After a moment, he undid it.

"You can go now. Don't tell anyone we're here. Still need to take care of Tucker for some shit," Grif said, jabbing a thumb at the door. "Get going."

Lopez left, moving slowly and gingerly. Painful. But he was mobile. That was enough.

He made a note not to underestimate any of the idiots he was surrounded with. If they were all hiding ruthlessness like that, he didn't want to be taken by surprise by it again. In any case, he'd at least have to reconsider this alliance with O'Malley. It was much, much more trouble than it was worth.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Lopez's footsteps receded, Tucker stood up. Simmons hadn't actually tied him up. He'd just kept his arms behind his back and out of Lopez's view to create the illusion that he had.

"Geez. You didn't have to punch that hard, Grif." Tucker rubbed the side of his face. "Stings like a bitch. Also, you didn't have to hit me once I was behind him. Could have just made the hitting noise."

"It was for realism," Grif insisted, rubbing his knuckles. "My hands hurt. Lopez has a pretty solid chest."

"I know, it was like punching a wall," Simmons said, examining the cloth they'd used. They'd shredded some of the clothes in the closet before Lopez had arrived for bindings. It wasn't the sturdiest bindings, but Simmons made up for it with really good knots. He'd been in the boy scouts as a kid, and although he'd been terrible at a lot of it the knots had been his speciality.

Tucker kept rubbing his face as Grif and Simmons talked. He glanced at the door which Lopez had left through. He had nothing against Lopez, personally. And he didn't really give a shit about Grif and Simmons' weird little revenge scheme. But that wasn't what was important.

What was important was that Lopez—and O'Malley—had messed with Donut. Tucker hated Donut. But Church… there was something there, whether Church was just banging him or whether it was something more.

Tucker had to question his taste, but if Donut meant something to Church, then Tucker would make sure no-one touched Donut. Because no-one touched Church's shit.

 

* * *

 

Donut had fallen asleep again. That was okay now, though. He had woken up last time, when Grif and Simmons had turned up, so he would wake up again. Caboose was a little sleepy, too, but he had to stay so that Donut didn't get nightmares, and there was not enough room on this bed for him to share.

At least North was not trying to feed him orange juice. North didn't get mad when Caboose talked at Donut. He was much nicer than Washboard. Sometimes he even asked Caboose polite questions about what he was talking about.

Caboose was talking about cats again—he kept thinking about cats, because Doc's poster of the hanging kitty was still on the wall—when the door opened.

Lopez was there.

Caboose's hand immediately clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white. Donut winced in his sleep, and Caboose slowly loosened his hold. But he stared at Lopez, anger already rolling in his stomach.

Lopez was a danger to Sheila. Lopez was friends with O'Malley. Lopez had hurt Donut. He was moving very slowly and his nose was bloody. That wasn't enough. That wouldn't stop him from hurting people.

North got up and quickly went to help Lopez into a seat. “So much for Wash's insistence that 'nothing will happen.' Are you alright? Who did this?”

“ _Nobody. I tripped and fell multiple times. Onto someone's fists_ ,” Lopez said flatly. He glanced at Donut, then at Caboose, before fixing his gaze onto the wall.

“Um… okay, sorry, I don't understand Spanish. Is anything broken?” North asked. Lopez shrugged. “Okay. Okay, uh… sorry, I know nothing about this. You're not going to pass out or die immediately?” Lopez shook his head. “Alright. I'm going to go find Wash. He knows more than I do, and he should be here anyway.” He looked over at Caboose. “Stay where you are. Alright?”

Caboose didn't reply. He just waited while North found a box of tissues and flung them at Lopez for him to to stop his bleeding nose with. Once he hurried out of the room, Caboose listened to his footsteps go away.

The moment everything was silent, he let go of Donut's hand. Lopez wasn't looking at him. He wasn't looking at Donut, when he really should have been looking at Donut because it was his fault. Instead, he was looking at the hanging kitty poster while trying to stifle the bleeding coming from his nose.

The tension in the air was so thick that it couldn't have been cut. Everything was dead silent, until Donut twitched a little in his sleep and mumbled indistinguishably. He sounded so croaky, even when he was asleep.

Like the straw that broke the elephant's back, that just broke whatever restraint Caboose had left, and he was on his feet. He crossed the room in three steps before lunging right at Lopez, ignoring the pain shooting through his injured shoulder in favour of smashing his fist into Lopez's face.

Lopez had hurt Donut. Caboose would hurt Lopez. Make it so he couldn't hurt anyone ever again.

 

* * *

 

The dreams weren't always good, and just before Donut woke up he had a very distinct impression of a dark place, with the only distinct thing in the darkness being a giant smile floating above him. Not quite causing terror, but… unsettling, definitely.

Then there was this big crashing noise and Donut woke up, but for a moment he thought he was still asleep. He blinked sleepily, hearing more crashing noises and thumps, and looking blankly at the two rolling around on the ground.

It took him a little longer to realise that this was not a continuation of the dream.

“Ca… Caboose, stop! Stop that!” He tried to sit up, but his torso protested violently to the idea. Not as bad as before the painkillers, but still bad. “Owowow—Caboose! Lopez!” What was Lopez even doing here?!

Lopez looked in worse shape than Caboose, and was smaller, but he was putting up a fight. As Donut watched, Lopez punched Caboose in the stomach hard. It didn't do much except force Caboose back for a moment, but then Caboose lunged forward again and did the same, and it had a much stronger impact on Lopez. Within a few moments, Caboose managed to grab his head and smash his face into the floor. Donut heard a pretty nasty crunching noise. If Lopez's nose hadn't been broken yet, it certainly was now.

"Caboose! Lopez! This is stupid, stop it!"

Both of them just flat-out ignored him. Lopez, at least, probably had bigger things to worry about. Such as the hands which had just closed around his neck.

"No more! No more!" Caboose yelled. “You're not gonna hurt Cherry Pie again!” With every word, he shook Lopez angrily. Lopez did attempt to fight back, but Caboose was too big and he looked like he was in too much pain. The angry Spanish had quickly given way to choked rasps.

"Caboose!" Donut screamed. "Stop it!"

"No! I am fixing things!"

"Stop it!"

Caboose tightened his grip. “No. He will hurt you, he will hurt Sheila, he has to go, he has to go, he has to.” A smile crossed his face. “He's going to go away, and everything is going to be better.”

That smile. Jesus Christ, that smile. Donut knew that smile, even if he'd never seen it on Caboose's face before.

He was terrified now, and that terror gave him the energy to move. To ignore how his injuries screamed at him, to try and forget the fact that he would regret moving later. If he didn't move, it would mean Lopez's death. He shifted a little, and something under the blankets nudged his side. Something plush. Donut stuck his good hand underneath to try and grab it, but it involved twisting a little and—fuck, that hurt.

Caboose heard Donut let out a strained squeaky noise and turned around. He didn't let go of Lopez's neck. Lopez was desperately trying to budge Caboose's hands to no avail, his face steadily going purple.

“Soufflé? You should not be moving. You might get hurt again," Caboose said.

His voice was so… friendly. How could he sound that nice and friendly when he was trying to kill a man?!

“Caboose, stop! Stop it!”

“Cherry Pie, you're going to hurt yourself—“

“I. Said. Stop it!” Donut shrieked. His fingers touched the object underneath his blankets, and without thinking Donut grabbed it, pulled his arm out and threw whatever it was at Caboose.

The toy pigeon went flying and bopped Caboose lightly on the head before falling to the ground, coming to a rest a few inches from Lopez.

Caboose let go of Lopez's neck, but Donut was fairly sure he mostly did out of confusion. Lopez started taking in huge, raspy breaths, scrambling away from Caboose until he was leaning against the infirmary wall.

Caboose reached out and picked up the toy pigeon, turning it over in his hands for a moment before looking at Donut.

“You threw Margretta,” he said, pouting. “She was helping you.”

"What was I supposed to do? You were going to kill him!"

"I am trying to help! And he deserves it!"

"No! No, he doesn't deserve it! No-one deserves that!"

" _Some people do,_ " Lopez rasped, massaging his throat.

"Shut up, Lopez! I'm mad at you, too!" Donut shouted. Then he looked back to Caboose. "No killing! Not unless you don't have a choice about it!"

Caboose was still staring at Donut. His expression was going from bemused to hostile.

"You... You are not my mother," Caboose muttered under his breath.

"Not your mother? Not your mother?! So what, you can kill people as long as your mother never says you can't?! So what if I'm not your mother! I'm the one who has been taking care of you every time you get your head stuck in your jacket and telling you stories and listening to you! I'm doing a fucking better job than her, when was the last time she visited you?!"

Caboose went white, and when he spoke his voice was shaking.

"Stop. Talking. About. Mama."

A voice in the back of Donut's head told him to stop talking. That this could go nowhere good. But the rest of Donut's mind was too mad and frightened to listen.

"No, I won't! Because... Because, quite frankly, if she never taught you why it's bad to kill people and that there's a difference between murdering people and them 'tripping over'... If she never taught you any of that and then let you run off to kill four people and end up in here... well, she can't have been very good at taking care of you!"

Donut finished shouting, breathing heavily from both the shouting and the pain and stress of shoving himself off the cot. He stared at Caboose, and Caboose stared back. Every part of his face containing nothing but fury.

Donut shut his eyes, shivering. Expecting, at any moments, hands to close around his throat instead of Lopez. Five minutes ago he would never have considered even the idea that Caboose would do something like that, but... five minutes ago, Caboose hadn't been trying to strangle someone.

After a long stretch of time during which Donut was not throttled, he opened one eye cautiously. Caboose hadn't moved an inch. Like he just didn't know how to react. Eventually, he spoke.

“You should go back to sleep, Donut,” he said. His voice was very cold.

Donut didn't say anything. He only stared Caboose down. Caboose looked over at Lopez, who was still breathing heavily as he leaned against the wall, then he stomped towards his cot, cradling the toy pigeon in his arms. He got into his cotand pulled the blankets over his head.

Donut let out a long, shaky breath. Just doing that made his chest ache. He lay down again properly. He knew even just that movement was going to cause the pain to return much harder once these painkillers started to wear off. Already he could feel the throbbing.

There was a series of quiet coughs as Lopez got up, still rubbing his throat. He stared at Donut with an odd expression.

"What're you staring at?"

" _That was a stupid thing to do. Insulting mothers is rude everywhere._ "

"I know. I know… don't need you to tell me that.”

Lopez dropped into the nearest chair, looking about ready to pass out. He looked at Donut, then looked away. After a moment of consideration, he looked back.

“ _I should probably thank you._ ”

“Do what you want,” Donut muttered. “You're still a jerk.”

Lopez let out a vaguely amused cough. “ _Fair enough._ ”

 

* * *

 

"You know what? I'm glad Grif and Simmons aren't out to get us," Tucker said conversationally, checking his face in the bathroom mirrors, looking to see if he was bruised at all. "The punches were painful enough while I was helping them, I'd hate to feel them while they're serious. Never seen them seriously pissed before."

"I'm pretty sure that most of the prison has wanted to punch you at some point, I wouldn't worry about them," Church said, rolling his eyes. Tucker was such a vain dumbass at times. "Hell, I know I want to punch you on a day-by-day basis."

"Yeah, I know, I know."

"Why did you even agree to help them out, anyway?"

There was a pause. Then Tucker turned around, grinned at him for a moment. "Usual stuff. I'll hold the favour over their heads and eventually demand pruno or porn magazines or something in exchange. I'm just waiting until the time's right. Usual con stuff, you know?"

"I don't think most con artists dedicate their efforts to acquiring pornography, of all things."

"True, but hey. What is life without the little pleasures? Alcohol, sex, weird pornography... Might not be as good stuff as on the outside, but if I can get it in here I'm sure gonna. I'm pretty sure being able to have stuff like that is an American right or some shit. Know what I'm saying?" Tucker stared at Church for a moment. "Church? You even listening?"

Church snapped out of the daydream that had occurred in the middle of Tucker's explanation about 'the little pleasures.' "What? I don't have time to listen to you, Tucker. Most of the stuff you say is garbage anyway.”

Tucker stuck out his tongue. "You're just a wet blanket. Need to loosen up. Find some alcohol, some of whatever food you ate on the outside, go grab Donut—"

"I'm not fucking Donut!"

"Sure, you say that. Why you being so defensive, I told you I don't care. You need to get laid more often, anyway. Maybe it'll get rid of the stick up your ass."

"I hate you so much."

"I know. You hate everyone and everything."

"Well... I especially hate you.”

 

* * *

 

Wash was staring down Lopez, looking thoughtful. After a few minutes of staring, he said, "He's... definitely been beaten up."

“Wow. Really?” North asked. “I mean, I am just… I am so floored, I would never have guessed.”

“What's wrong with you? Not usually that level of sarcastic.”

“Look, I only like being responsible for people when I know how. Medical expertise is kind of out of my area, and to be honest I'm pretty sure it's out of yours, too.”

“You'd be right.” Wash continued staring at Lopez. “I'd... guess there's at least one broken rib there, and the nose is definitely busted... Of course, the test for broken ribs consists mostly of poking him there and seeing if he complains," Wash explained. “I think we need to send him to the hospital. I'd leave him for the new doctor to deal with, but if he's bleeding internally or something I wouldn't want to explain to the doctor why there's a corpse up here.”

" _This entire prison is incompetent,_ " Lopez muttered.

North tilted his head, frowning at Lopez. “I could swear he was less injured when he first came up here.”

“Yeah?”

Wash looked at Lopez, who stared back while looking generally unimpressed. He then looked at the other two patients. Caboose, for the first time in days, had voluntarily gone back to his bunk, and was now sulking underneath his blankets. Then he looked at Donut. Donut was sleeping. Or had been pretending to sleep, because when Wash glanced over abruptly Donut had one eye slightly open. He immediately shut it again when Wash stared at him.

“Probably just your imagination. Can you call the hospital? I've had to talk to them enough this week.”

“That I can do.”

As North went to the other side of the infirmary to use the phone, Wash turned towards Donut's cot. The breathing wasn't the same as when Donut had been asleep.

Why would he feel the need to fake sleep? Why would Caboose have moved back to his cot, after days of refusing to? And if anyone had attacked Lopez in between North leaving and bringing Wash back… well, if it had been Caboose, Lopez would probably be lying on the floor with a crushed skull. According to prison rumors, Caboose didn't leave witnesses.

Wash continued watching Donut before idly giving him a quick prod in the chest.

“Ow, what the hell?” Donut yelped, good arm curling up a little to protect his injuries.

“Wash, what's happening?” North asked, briefly covering the phone's mouthpiece as he looked over.

“Nothing. Hand slipped while I was checking something,” Wash said briskly.

No. He was probably thinking too much. Still, Wash settled back in the chair he'd vacated earlier, and this time he kept an eye on Donut. He shouldn't be able to hurt anyone in that state. But it wouldn't have been the first time he'd done something that should have been impossible for someone like him.


	10. Chapter Eight: Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new doctor arrives. And leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look up. Look at the warnings on this fic. Remember the kind of fic you're reading because shit is going to get unpleasant.

Sarge liked the new doctor. He stood in a way that was reminiscent of the military. Very straight and formal. Although the man's background said there was no military experience at all, Sarge liked to think that he had been in a past life. If past lives were a thing. Sarge liked to think that he himself had spent all his past lives kicking ass in battle.

In any case, he seemed less of a hippy than Doc had been. That was something.

“State your name, son.”

“Walter Henderson, sir.”

“What is your opinion on the colour red?”

“The colour red?” Henderson frowned at him. “Is this a test?”

“I hope you read my requirements! No dirty blue lovers!”

“Yes, I saw that. I thought it was code for… something. Uh… I mean, I like the colour red.” Henderson tugged at the bottom of the red shirt he was wearing. “It's a nice colour.”

“Excellent!”

Uses the term 'sir' and likes the colour red? Yes. Yes, this was a good doctor. Maybe even a future drinking buddy.

“Captain Flowers will be here in a moment to lead you to the infirmary. We got a few in there, but none of them are dying. I think. Touch-and-go there for a while. Good kids in there, though. Well, Lopez has only been here for a couple of weeks, but Donut'll do laundry if you bribe him! And I guess Caboose is alright for a no-good dirty Blue. A bit head-crushy, though.”

“...Head-crushy?”

“Oh, that's all rumor, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

When Donut woke up the next morning, his predictions from the previous day were proved true. Everything ached like crazy. It was enough to make him want to go right back to sleep. But it was difficult to go to sleep with people chattering nearby. Was Caboose talking to him again? No, that wasn't Caboose's voice.

Donut opened his eyes. He was briefly puzzled to see Lopez lying on a bunk nearby, before yesterday started to catch up with him. Right, he'd suddenly been there yesterday. For some reason. He had bruises in areas that Caboose hadn't hurt him, so he must have been hurt before he got up here…

Right after Grif and Simmons had left, now that he thought about it. Jesus. But they wouldn't kick the shit out of Lopez that badly, would they? Then again, Donut had thought the same of Caboose.

Lopez looked a mess. His face was pretty battered, and his neck was just one giant bruise. He'd been shipped off to the hospital and returned quickly, the hospital having determined that he was in better shape than someone who'd had their ass kicked to that degree (twice) had any right to be. He must have been made out of iron.

Caboose was sitting on his bunk, blanket wrapped around himself like a burrito, and he was glaring at Lopez. If looks could kill, Lopez would have been dead and buried. And then his grave would have exploded. Caboose was holding his toy pigeon and petting it, the gentle gesture at odds with everything else. Lopez was meeting Caboose's glare head-on, and the two seemed to be communicating threats entirely with their eyes.

They were entirely silent, however. That wasn't what had woken Donut up. What had woken him up were the two others in the infirmary, shuffling around in the back. One of them was Captain Flowers, who was the source of most of the chatter. The other was a man in a doctor's coat with a red shirt underneath.

“And I believe Doc kept the lists of medication somewhere around here...” Flowers opened drawers here and there. The new man, meanwhile, was looking at the medicine cabinets themselves.

“I think some of these are outdated.”

“The expiry dates are off?”

“No, I mean I'm pretty sure at least three of these drugs aren't even used nowadays. That one over there's illegal.”

“Ah. Well, you seem a resourceful young man, so I'm sure you'll deal with that,” Flowers said cheerfully. Looking around, he saw that Donut was awake. “Ah, Donut! How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I've been plowed. Like, really vigorously plowed,” Donut said.

“Ah, who doesn't know the feeling of a vigorous plowing?”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Lopez muttered.

“Well, good news, we have a new doctor. This is Walter Henderson. I'm sure you'll grow to be the best of friends. Any rate, I'm sure it's an improvement over Washington. He's got his strengths, but he's not a people person, is he?”

“He's super grumpy.”

“Well, I'm probably in the way, so… you all set, Walter?”

“I… I think so?”

“Excellent. Then I'll be off. Caboose, good seeing you, as always.”

“Bye, Admiral Chrysanthemum,” Caboose said, although he sounded grumpy as he said it.

“And nice to meet you, Lopez.”

Lopez just grunted.

 

* * *

 

The Red Zealot would normally spend the day associating with the other followers of the Flag, and trying to convert other inmates to their way of life. This was often unsuccessful. It had gotten them mocked on more than one occasion. Even occasionally attacked, although that usually ended up worse for whoever attacked him and his Red brothers. No-one could stand against their combined might.

But that day, the zealot had retired to his cell. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharpening the shiv he had made. His Holy Flappiness was deserving of a magnificent weapon. A weapon made by his most dedicated follower's own hands. The zealot had sharpened it to such an insane degree that it was as sharp as a true knife. He had spent the time since the prophet had suggested the idea of a sacrifice working on it. A lesser mortal would have gotten bored and given up the task, but the Red Zealot was still fully focused on his mission, only stopping to eat and sleep. And that only so he could continue to have the energy to continue.

After so many hours of crafting and sharpening, he held it up to the dim lights that the cell blocks were lit with. A perfect weapon. The most perfect he could manage in this purgatory. The Flag deserved no worse than that. A smile crossed the zealot's face before he carefully wrapped up the shiv up in his bedsheet and placed it inside his footlocker before hurrying outside to pray to the Flag.

He spent a while just gazing with wonder at its shiny pole and silky fabric, before clasping hands together and kneeling.

"Oh wondrous Flag. Please grant me your blessings, so that I may perform the sacrifice and bask in the glory of all that which is red and most holy," the Red Zealot said, head bowed in prayer. "In your name I shall do this, so that one day I may overcome my inferiority to all things of flapping fabric and join you and all your worthy followers in the next life, while those who are unworthy burn in blue flames!"

He was sure he could feel the Flag smiling down on him. Of course, the Flag lacked the necessary appendages to smile, as they were unnecessary for a being of such power as His Holy Flappiness. But he could feel it. Turning away, he snapped his fingers.

"Followers of the flag, unto me! Assemble!"

Almost immediately, the rest of the Flag's followers assembled in front of him. They were always nearby. The Red Zealot was their leader, second only to the Flag and any prophets that made themselves known. All the zealot had to do was call out, and they would appear immediately in most circumstances.

"Followers! The day of the sacrifice draws near! Let us embark on a day-long vigil before the holy task is carried out! Return to your cells and pray, for tomorrow blood shall spill in the name of His Holy Flappiness!"

Cheers went up among the followers. They were ignored by the other inmates, the unenlightened ones. The Red Zealot gazed out over the crowd, looking for the sacred symbol of faith that would signal where the prophet was. He was not among the crowds. Perhaps he had been locked in the pits of judgement. The test that those who guarded purgatory put them through, and being able to survive such isolation without insanity proved that one was strong in spirit. If the prophet was there, then he would be fine. His Holy Flappiness would not have chosen someone as the prophet if he was weak of mind.

 

* * *

 

"Come onn, you're free now! Dance with joy!"

"No."

“Dance with joy! Dance with joy!”

“York, chanting that repeatedly isn't going to make me do it.”

“Ugh, okay, okay.” York tossed his hands into the air. “But it would have been awesome."

"Maybe for you. But I'm not about to ruin all the work I put into intimidating the inmates by breaking out into a dance routine," Wash said. "Dance routines aren't exactly intimidating."

"I'm sure they can be. Aren't there movies that have fights mixed with dancing? I saw that with Carolina once. They were doing this finger snap thing, I think it was supposed to be intimidating." York shuffled forward, snapping his fingers rhythmatically. “See, it's cool.”

“York. People are watching.”

“That's kind of the point, Wash. What's the point in doing a cool dance move if no-one's looking?"

Wash snorted. “Right.”

York leaned against the wall, keeping a watch over the yard for trouble. “Uh, speaking of Carolina… I was going to visit her today, you know? Damn undertaker doesn't do shit. You think maybe you could help me tidy up? You're better at pulling weeds. I'll buy drinks after.”

Any traces of levity in the air seemed to evaporate at the mention of Carolina.

“You don't have to bribe me. I'll help.” Wash stared off for a few moments, before asking, “Will you be… okay… for drinks after?”

“Look, I'm not going to collapse and weep like a new widow. Widower. Whichever. It's been a long time. Fuck, I'll probably need the drinks after. If anything it helps. Anyway, I appreciate it. I'm sure Carolina does, too.”

"Yeah...”

 

* * *

 

Lopez had been pronounced 'battered but basically good to leave, as long as he stayed off heavy activity for the next month due to the broken rib.' Given the choice of staying in the infirmary or returning to his cell, Lopez had leaped at the chance to go back to his cell. Metaphorically, of course. His rib was still too bad for actual leaping.

Henderson had also examined Caboose's injury. The stitches had torn a little, and no-one had noticed because Caboose had just hidden it by wadding up his sheet and using it to stifle it, because he said he'd been in the mood to stay within his blankets. Henderson was getting ready to redo them, but was still having trouble finding everything.

Caboose was still ignoring Donut.

“Caboose?” Donut whined. "Caboose? Come on, talk to me! I'm bored!” He knew he could have apologised, but he wasn't feeling up to that yet. Why should he have to apologise? Alright, insulting Caboose's mother was a little out of line, but Caboose had almost killed someone! “Caboose, come onnn. We can talk about unicorns or something!”

"I am sorry, I could not hear what you were saying over the sound of you being a jerk," Caboose muttered.

“Oh, that's harsh. Look, alright, I shouldn't have insulted your mother. But what did she teach you if she didn't teach you not to kill things?!”

Caboose scowled at the wall.

"Come onnn. Last time we got into a fight we didn't talk for, like, two months. And it was so lonely! I mean, two months of no talking? It's not the same hanging around with Grif and Simmons. I mean, I like Grif and Simmons, but they're like… a set. I always feel like a third wheel.” Donut paused, then shut his eyes with a huffy sigh. “I can't believe I didn't notice they were together. That's just… anyway, don't you get the same thing with Church and Tucker? They're not the same level of stuck together as Grif and Simmons, but—“

"No. Me and Church are bestest friends," Caboose said firmly.

This again. What was so fucking great about Church? Every time Church spoke to Caboose, it was just insults. Insults, insults, insults. Church had barely even visited Caboose since he got into the infirmary. But no. Church gets to be the best friend. Normally Donut didn't mind, but at the moment... he just felt very, very bitter. Maybe because if Church ever insulted Caboose's mother, Caboose would probably forgive him instantly.

Donut just barely stopped himself from snapping. Instead he just took a few deep breaths before continuing.

“Alright. Fine. Church is your best friend. Still, the last fight we had was awful, right?”

Caboose didn't say anything, but he did nod slightly.

“And this is nowhere near as serious as what the last fight was about.”

“You said bad things about Mama,” Caboose muttered. “You would not like it if I said mean things about your mama.”

“Uh, which mother? I mean, yeah, it's true. I'd be mad about either. I just like context.”

Caboose wrinkled his nose, thinking. "Erm... which one would make you madder?"

"Okay, I have a bad feeling that if we keep this up it'll turn into a 'yo momma' contest. Can we just forget that the fight yesterday never happened?"

"I am a good pretender."

"Yes, you are. So, can we just forget about it?"

There wasn't an immediate reply. Eventually, Donut also returned to staring at the ceiling, assuming the silence meant 'hell no.'

Caboose broke the silence. "One of my sisters said that unicorns only like girls. Is that true?"

"What?"

"You said we could talk about unicorns."

"Ah. Right. ...I thought unicorns liked virgins."

“Why do people from Virginia get all the unicorns?”

 

* * *

 

In an attempt to stave off boredom, Simmons had gone to the library and found a book on games that didn't require anything to play. Of course, the majority of them were for children, not to mention incredibly boring. It listed I Spy. I-Freaking-Spy. They had attempted that, but seeing as they were in the cells objects to 'spy' were very limited. So Simmons had gone back to flicking through the book, trying to find something which was at least slightly amusing.

"You aren't gonna find anything in that. It's a book of children's games," Grif told him, from his position on his cot. Simmons was sitting on the floor, back against the wall.

"There's got to be something. I'm sick of card games. And there are only so many superheroes we can argue about."

"Yeah, me too. But we can find something to do until I can make some more pruno, right?”

"I dunno, maybe you should stop doing that. You're just fucking up your chance at parole. Especially with the fist fight."

"Yeah, but... Time passes quicker that way, so even if I'm in here for less time without drinking, it'll feel like longer. Y'know?"

"But it won't be longer."

"Yes, but it'll feel like it." Grif stretched his arms a little before rolling over. Then he lifted his head a little. "Lopez is back."

"Already?" Simmons also looked up. "Maybe we didn't hit him enough. I thought he'd be in there for at least a couple of days."

"Eh. He still looks like crap." Grif watched Lopez edge towards his cell. "I think his rib is broken, that's how I was walking when it happened during that riot. Nice bruising around the left side. It's actually a good colour. What colour would Donut call it? Something that ends with sunset but it's not orange?"

"Stop admiring the beatings, it's creepy."

"But I'm bored, I gotta look at something. If we punch the crap outta someone, we might as well enjoy how it looks afterwards. Not doing that is like... like if that guy who painted the Mona Lisa not looking at it once he was done. Only this is more violent. And less boring."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "So beating up someone is on par with one of the most famous pieces of art of all time?"

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds creepy.”

“That's because it is creepy!”

 

* * *

 

"Those stitches should actually hold. Provided you don't do anything too strenuous." Henderson waved his hand at the door. "You can go."

"I can go? Really?" Caboose looked at the door uncertainly. "...Mr. Washingtub said I had to stay here."

“That made sense right after the injury, but you could have left days ago. Presumably, this Washington didn't know what he was talking about. Besides, I'd really like to keep cots open. This prison sounds kind of sketchy.” Henderson shrugged.

“What about Banana Pudding?”

“What?”

“He means me,” Donut said.

“Oh. Yeah, he's nowhere near ready to leave. Give it some weeks, maybe. Maybe, mind you, don't quote me on that. That's way too many stab wounds.”

Caboose might have normally asked to stay with Donut for a while, but perhaps he wasn't quite over the fight, because he nodded and turned to leave.

“Oh, um… wait. Can I talk to him for a moment?”

“Uh. ...Sure, I guess.”

Caboose gave Donut a quizzical look before walking over and crouching next to the bed. “Are we talking about secret things?”

“Kind of.” Donut kept his voice down. Henderson gave them an odd look before going back to rummaging through everything. “Look, Caboose. Promise me you won't try and hurt Lopez again, okay? It's not nice, and it'll get you in trouble.”

“I am already here forever, Meringue.”

“It's still not nice! And besides, you could get put in the shoe. Look, just don't do anything. Okay?”

"But... he hurt you."

"And I'm angry about that, sure. But two wrongs don't make a right."

"I think three wrongs do. And because he was already hurt by people, that makes two wrongs. So me hurting him will make things good again."

"That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

“Caboose, please! Please, just don't! For me?”

Caboose looked at Donut, then looked away. “He'll hurt Sheila.”

“He can't hurt Sheila if he's in here, and he's going to be in here for a while. Don't worry about her. Just… leave Lopez alone, okay?”

Caboose crossed his arms, looking grumpy again. But he nodded. "Okay. I will not hurt Lopez right now. But only because you said so."

Donut noticed the presence of the words 'right now,' but he supposed it was better than nothing.

"Good. Because you were really scary yesterday."

"Scary?"

"Yeah. The crazy smile…"

"I did not know it looked crazy."

"It looked very crazy! You looked like O'Malley! It was that kind of smile!"

"No, it was not."

"Trust me. Try it in the mirror sometime.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Church had those shitty old dreams again.

He didn't know why. It wasn't like today had made him particularly worried for Tucker's safety. He'd played cards with Tucker, mostly. Caboose had been let out the infirmary, had hugged him very tightly and said something about there being a new doctor, although Caboose had said he didn't smell as much like mints as Doc had. But that was it.

But whenever he tried falling asleep, that stupid old dream kept cropping up.

Same darkness. Same pitch-black darkness. The only light being where he and Tucker were standing. Tucker in the hospital gown and the oxygen mask in place of his usual orange jumpsuit and shit-eating grin. And just like the last time, Tucker had been blue and cold. His eyes dead and empty.

Church would wake up. Lie there for a few minutes. Fall asleep again. And the dream would return.

This time, he was following Tucker. Tucker was breathing wrong. His breaths were strained. Church tried to reach out and grab him, but his fingers only ever managed to barely brush Tucker's shoulder.

When Church woke up that time, the sound of pained breathing persisted in reality. Panic flared in Church's chest for a minute before he realised what was happening. Tucker had rolled over onto his stomach, and his breathing always sounded more strained when that happened.

“Tucker,” Church mumbled. “Tuckerrr.”

There was a creaking noise from his cell, followed by an annoyed grunt. “For fuck's sake, Church. What?”

“Roll on your back. You're breathing wrong.”

“You woke me up for that?”

“Mm.”

“Ugh, you don't have to baby me...” There were more creaking sounds before Tucker settled back down. Church was already asleep again, though.

Nothing had really changed in the dreams. It was like his brain just paused the dream whenever he woke up, then pressed play again the moment he was asleep.

Tucker had stopped walking, so Church stopped walking too. Then Tucker turned around and headed right for Church. His eyes still had that dead look about them. His oxygen mask had vanished at some point.

His hands touched Church's face. They were cold. And when this cold, dead-looking facsimile of Tucker pushed against him, pressing his lips against Church's own, it was cold and stale, and it tasted like mothballs and vomit, it was so, so obvious that this Tucker was dead, and Church wanted to move away but he couldn't. He had no control, in that way that only ever happened in dreams, where things just happened and you didn't have a choice…

Tucker pulled away, and the oxygen mask was back on his face, and he wandered away again. Out of the light. Back into the pitch black darkness. There was no-one stopping Church from following him... and despite that, he couldn't move. He could only stretch out his arm and tell Tucker not to leave, that it was stupid, that he didn't need an oxygen mask and please, Tucker, don't leave—

Church woke up. It took him a moment to realise he was crying. He scrubbed at his eyes angrily.

He turned over in his cot. He could hear Tucker from his cell, just breathing in and out quietly in his sleep. The breathing was deeper and easier this time. Tucker was fine. Of course he was. It was just a stupid dream.

So... what the hell was Church crying over? What the fuck was he afraid of?

 

* * *

 

God, did O'Malley hate the shoe.

If he ever got out of this prison, he would consider coming back just to burn this place down to the ground. God, would that be a sight. Particularly if the inhabitants were still inside. But it would be enough just to destroy these damn walls.

What didn't help the situation was the pounding headache he had. It just got worse by the hour, and so did the shaking. He hadn't been given his usual medication during the last day and the headache and nausea occurred and made it even harder to concentrate, and his hands started shaking so badly that even just eating was near impossible.

O'Malley despised the medication that Doc had kept him on. But he was starting to become aware of just how much he needed it. Not to fix the problems that Doc had thought he was fixing, but to stave off the side effects of the pills themselves.

The new doctor must have been here by now, right? Or was it a different day? It was so hard to tell in the shoe. But perhaps this new doctor didn't know he needed them. Or perhaps the doctor was competent enough to realise that they were bad pills, and had discontinued them.

He didn't need them. He didn't. He didn't _.  
_

But god, he wanted them.

O'Malley punched the wall furiously. The impact and burst of pain that came from his hand (which still bore scrapes from when he had punched the wall after Doc left, and from smashing every bit of Donut he could reach) did distract him momentarily from his headache. But only momentarily. Afterwards, he flopped back onto his cot, scowling.

This was all Doc's fault. Oh, he was going to suffer when he came back. For destroying his hands and clouding his head. For abandoning him in his hellhole. And when he was done, Doc wouldn't be able to even contemplate abandoning him again.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Caboose stared at the mirror in the bathroom. Well, mirror wasn't the right word. It was just a very shiny piece of metal that everyone used as a mirror. Caboose could hear the hiss of the showers in the next room, and people kept passing by. A guard stood in the corner, keeping an eye out.

Caboose squinted at his reflection, and then tried smiling. It was a normal smile. A nice smile. His teeth were crooked, but they'd always been that way. It was a good smile.

O'Malley smiled differently. O'Malley smiled wider, and with more teeth. Even if Caboose tried pulling the sides of his mouth up, he still couldn't smile like that.

Donut must have been seeing things. Caboose didn't smile that way. O'Malley smiled like that when he hurt people for no reason, and Caboose only hurt people that deserved it.

He remembered a closet, and a pretty blonde lady, but as soon as this memory came to mind he pushed it away.

Yep. He sure had only ever hurt people who deserved it. Like Miller and Lopez. They had deserved it, so that was not a bad thing. Donut was just confused.

There was some footsteps moving behind Caboose, and he saw Lopez's reflection behind him. Caboose frowned, not turning around. Only watching him in the reflection. He saw Lopez watching him warily as he went past, making his way towards the shower room. Caboose clenched his fists together, resisting the urge to finish strangling the mean man. He promised Donut he would not hurt Lopez at the moment, and he could not do that with the guard watching anyway.

But he wouldn't leave Lopez to walk around and do bad things. He would stop Lopez. Not now, but soon. Soon. And then things would be good again. Everyone would be safe. And Donut would see that it was a good thing.

Caboose smiled at the thought. And then as soon as he caught sight of his smile in the mirror he jumped back, hand clasped over his mouth.

Oh no. No. He'd been seeing things. He hadn't smiled like that. He'd smiled normally. He wouldn't smile like that.

Caboose tried to see if he could do the smile again. But at the same time, he was very afraid that he would manage it. Caboose couldn't remember feeling so scared of his reflection since that time he'd thought he was staring at a ghost, back in the hospital.

Maybe reflections were just evil. Yeah, that had to be it.

 

* * *

 

Donut didn't wake up when someone knocked on the infirmary door. But what did wake him up was a ridiculously high-pitched voice shouting from the other side of the door. He jerked up slightly before letting out a little hiss and lying back down.

Henderson had been rifling through the medication notes, occasionally muttering about inaccuracies. He looked at the door for a moment before putting down his current notes.

“Hello?”

"I require assistance!" the voice shouted.

"Assistance? Are you injured?" Henderson asked.

There was a pause. "Uh, yes. It's very serious."

Henderson sighed, climbed to his feet before hurrying over to the door and opening it. Donut looked up to see the crazy religious guy who was always talking to the flag. The one who continuously stole his clothes, or so Donut believed. He hadn't been able to catch him at it yet.

"One of the blue demons has attacked and thrown out the balance," the Red Zealot said.

"Blue demons? You know what, I'm not even going to ask... Okay, come in," Henderson said. "Sit down on the cot."

"Yes." The Red Zealot hurried across the room, and Henderson closed the door. "You are the new doctor?"

"Doctor Walter Henderson, yes. Where are you hurt? Can I see the injury?"

The Red Zealot smiled brightly. "Have you seen blood yet? Have you witnessed the corruption of this purgatory?"

"Well... I re-did some stitches. I saw blood during that. What purgatory?"

"This purgatory. Of which His Holy Flappiness watches over."

"He's going to talk like this for a while," Donut warned Henderson. "He's kinda weird. Got this cult thing going on where they worship the Red flag."

"Huh. Weird."

"His Holy Flappiness requires his followers to correct the imbalances to this purgatory."

"Uh, yes. Can I see the injury now?"

The Red Zealot smiled wider and stepped towards Henderson. "I am here to cure the imbalance. Under the all-seeing eyes of our fabric god."

There was a glint as the Zealot pulled out a shiv. The sharpest shiv that Donut had ever seen. Donut's eyes widened and Henderson stepped back.

“Wait, wait, wait, put that down! Uh… however upset you are about these 'blue demons,' there's no need for… put that down!”

The Red Zealot did not appear to hear him. "We must appease them and buy our ascension with blood." The Zealot's voice got louder as he progressed. He stepped forward. "We must have sacrifice!"

"What the hell?" Donut tried to move off the cot, tried to see if there was something around to grab, but this time Caboose had taken his pigeon with him. Donut had nothing to throw.

Henderson decided, very wisely, that this was not worth sticking around for. He quickly moved away from the Zealot before making a run for the door. However, when he tried to open the door he couldn't. Someone was holding it shut from the other side.

"No, no. Nonononono—"

"My Red brothers have barred the door. There is no escape." The Red Zealot lifted the shiv and pointed it. "Pure one! It is your duty to receive this honour! You shall be blessed by the Flag as we decorate his shiny pole with your innards!"

"No, no, no, come on, this is crazy—" Henderson pleaded, banging his fist against the door. "Hey! Let me out! Someone?!"

"You're insane! What are you thinking?!" Donut yelled, trying to move off the cot. He managed to roll off it, but the pain on hitting the ground was far too intense. He let out a yelp and curled up instinctively.

"Please don't, please just... please—"

Henderson's begging fell on deaf ears. The Red Zealot leaped forward, thrusting the shiv into Henderson's stomach.

Henderson only made a small, choked gasp of pain, but his face portrayed unimaginable agony. The Red Zealot gripped Henderson's shoulder tightly before starting to slowly drag the shiv across his stomach, occasionally jerking the shiv whenever he met resistance. Donut froze completely. He couldn't move, and he couldn't look away. He could only stare, horrified.

"Let his Holy Flappiness bask in his crimson sacrifice! And let us bask in his divine light!" the zealot screeched, his face stretched into a joyous smile.

The scent of blood was much stronger than anything Donut had ever smelt, but it came with a different smell, one that was horrifyingly reminiscent of a public bathroom that hadn't been cleaned in years. Donut realised with a new surge of horror and nausea that the Red Zealot wasn't merely stabbing the man. He was disemboweling him, inch by agonizing inch. Henderson's eyes were bulging, and blood trickled out of his mouth. Donut attempted to shout, to do something, anything, but his voice caught in his throat.

"Salvation through blood!" the Red Zealot screamed.

"Salvation through blood!" some voices from the outside, the ones barring the door, echoed back.

With those voices yelling for blood, the Red Zealot finally jerked the shiv out of Henderson. Blood gushed. Henderson fell to the ground. It would have been horrifying enough if he'd been dead by then. But he wasn't. Eyes still bulging, he scrabbled at his stomach, perhaps in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his guts from spilling. Flopping around in his own blood, similar in a sick, twisted way to a fish out of water. And even amongst the blood and the shouts of those standing outside, the Red Zealot stood there with his face tilted up slightly, blood coating his hands. Eyes closed, and an expression of pure bliss on his face.

"I have reached the top of the mountain! I can feel the divine light reflecting off the holy flagpole!"

Donut covered his mouth, back pressed hard against the cot. The smell was nothing like he had ever felt before, thicker and stronger and overpowering his senses, even from the other side of the room.

There was nothing to throw up. Donut hadn't eaten anything all week, having been fed through an IV while he was out and still working his way back to solid food, so he had nothing in his stomach. All that came up was thick strings of saliva. He was finally able to avert his eyes as he covered his mouth and gagged, covering his mouth with his good hand and curling up tighter. But that didn't block out the smell, and he couldn't edge away.

He heard footsteps and forced himself to open his eyes. The Red Zealot was standing over him, hands still dripping, shiv clenched in one of them. Donut tried to inch a little further away, expecting that the Red Zealot would sacrifice him next. But the Red Zealot made no move towards him. He just stared down at Donut with his head tilted curiously.

"My Red brother... do you look upon the sacrifice with disgust?" he asked. He stepped forward, reaching towards him with one blood-coated hand. "Do you not possess the level of enlightenment that the Flag has blessed his most treasured followers with?" He stepped forward again, waving his hands dramatically as he spoke. Blood speckling Donut's hospital nightshirt as he did so.

There was nowhere for Donut to go. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. He recoiled from the blood like it was acid, but that's all he could do.

"Have you not accepted the flag as your savior?"

"Y-y-you're fucking insane! You... you did that because of a piece of crappy fabric?!" Donut yelled, voice cracking. "You're insane! Insane!"

"You would commit such sacrilege? You, the one who cleanses fabric more thoroughly than anyone in this purgatory?" That confused tone was still there. Like he just didn't understand why anyone would object to what they'd done.

A shout came from outside the door.

"The gatekeepers! They are upon us!" one yelled. "Run!"

Donut could hear footsteps scattering, running away from the infirmary. A few moments later, Wash shoved open the door. He was followed by North.

"Why were they all gathering outside the do—" North came to a halt as he saw Henderson, who was only twitching at this point. He opened and shut his mouth a couple of times silently, before saying, "Oh."

Wash covered his mouth, nauseated, before his eyes moved from Henderson's twitching body to the Red Zealot. He lowered his hand and stepped forward.

“Drop the weapon,” Wash said quietly.

"I will not drop the sacrificial knife! It shall not be allowed to fall into the hands of the gatekeepers or those who are not of the most holy colo—"

The Red Zealot was interrupted by Wash squirting him in the face with pepper spray. What had been the start of another fanatical rant devolved into a scream and some arm flailing as he covered his eyes. This did cause him to drop the shiv.

While the Red Zealot had been distracted, North had made his way over to Henderson. Nose scrunched up, presumably to block out the smell, he was checking Henderson's pulse.

Donut didn't have to check to know that Henderson was doomed. Even Maine hadn't bled this much.

"He still has a pulse, but... he isn't going to last long enough for an ambulance," North muttered. "Not a chance."

"Might be for the best. That's something you don't want to live through," Wash said. He restrained the screeching, flailing zealot's arms and started dragging him towards the door. "Call an ambulance, but…"

"Yeah." As Wash left, Zealot in tow, North finally looked away from Henderson and at Donut. "Right, sorry! Hang on, I'll just..." North stepped over Henderson, made his way over to Donut and picked him up carefully, placing him back on the bed. "Sorry about that."

Donut meant to tell North it wasn't a problem, but all that came out was a 'hurrk' noise, followed by him dry heaving.

"You alright? Donut?"

Donut didn't reply. North patted him on the back gently.

"Donut. I need to know why this happened. I know it's hard to talk about... or look at... or smell, for that matter. But... I need to know, alright?"

"I... I don't know," Donut said shakily. "The crazy little religious guy just came in and spouted something about correcting some kind of balance, and they were yelling about salvation through blood and something about the flag…"

North nodded, rubbing his back in an oddly reminiscent way to what Mama Liz would sometimes do when Donut was ill. It was comforting. "Okay. Well... you can't stay up here. Once someone else gets here I'll help them take you down to your cell. You can stay there until we've cleaned this all up."

Donut spent the time until then covering his eyes and nose as well as he could, so he didn't have to see and smell the mess that the Red Zealot had made of Henderson.

 

* * *

 

Being back in his regular cell would have felt good if it weren't for the fact that Donut was there because the infirmary floor was covered with enough blood to dye the floor a nasty reddish-brown colour. Or the fact that Donut was stuck on his cot. Being stuck on a cot in the infirmary was bad enough, but being stuck like that in his cell, with people walking past regularly... He was pretty much a sitting duck if anything else happened.

Being a sitting duck really, really didn't feel good at the moment.

Donut tapped the cot with the fingers on his working hand nervously. He did his best to think about other things, but inevitably they returned back to the infirmary and... and then the sight of the zealot dragging a shiv through Henderson's stomach returned to his mind, clear as if it was happening in front of him right now.

"The hell are you doing back here already?"

Donut looked up to see Tucker standing in the doorway. Normally, he didn't particularly like to hang around Tucker. Too much old hatred there. Also, Tucker talked about girls he'd picked up far too much. It was kind of gross sometimes. But at the moment, Donut was just glad to see someone.

"Hey, Tucker. You want to hang out here?"

"Hell no."

"Please?"

"Why would I want to? You're a jerk."

"No, you are."

"Great comeback. Go find Caboose, if you want someone to hang around with. Or Church, or Grif and Simmons... hell, find anyone. They all like you, for some reason."

"I can't go find anyone. I'm stuck here. Can't move without loads of pain. The, uh... the infirmary is... not working at the moment," Donut mumbled.

"Not working? How can a room not work?"

"I... really don't want to talk about it. Look, I don't like you either. But I really don't want to be left alone right now. I'm... I'm kinda scared."

Tucker crossed his arms, frowning. "So, you're scared because you can't move. Right? And you think someone's gonna amble along and decide you're easy pickings?"

"That's... yeah."

"You can't move at all?"

"I can move one of my arms. And sort of sit up sometimes. But that's it.”

"Hm. I'll be right back." Tucker left down the walkway. There was a few minutes of nothing, long enough for Donut to suspect that Tucker had just said he'd be back to stop Donut from annoying him. But after a while, Tucker came back.

"Will this help?" He held up a shiv. Donut's immediate reaction was to recoil.

"Why do you have a shiv?!" he blurted. Tucker raised an eyebrow.

"Why wouldn't I? I'm interested in living long enough to get out of here, alright? Got it when Caboose was being creepy around me. In case something really shit happens, you know? I haven't stabbed anyone with it yet."

"Yet?"

"Well, who knows what'll happen later. Anyway." Tucker walked to Donut, held the screwdriver out to him. "You want it or what? This way you won't be completely defenseless if something happens."

Donut eyed it warily. The last time he'd held a weapon... that had been a knife. And that had landed him in here.

He didn't want to take another weapon. Especially not like what the Red Zealot had used, but a sharp shiv was still better than what O'Malley used… The memory of O'Malley standing over him, asking him which ear he'd prefer to keep, came rushing back into his head. The memory of O'Malley trying to hack off his ear… god, a sharp shiv would have been so much better right then. And then Donut tried to force that memory out of his head, but Henderson writhing about on the floor returned, and...

Donut edged away as much as he could from the shiv that Tucker was holding out. He didn't want to take it, but…

"So, you don't want it?"

But if something did happen... if it was kill or be killed... then Donut would stand a better chance if he had something other than his fists.

Donut reached out and took the shiv from Tucker. He looked at it for a moment before looking back up at Tucker.

"Why are you giving me this? You hate me."

Tucker shrugged before grinning. "True, that." He turned around, started to walk out. He stopped in the doorway. "By the way, I'll tell Church you're in here. Figure he'd want to know."

"Why would—"

"Don't play dumb, asshole," Tucker said before leaving. Donut frowned, before looking back down at the shiv. He looked over it for a few moments before slipping it under his blanket.

Even with a weapon on hand, he didn't feel any less scared. If anything, it made him feel worse.

 

* * *

 

Sarge was the only one in the room that didn't seem disturbed. Even Flowers, for all his usual cheerfulness, looked incredibly serious. But Sarge looked more annoyed than anything.

"Dangnammit, I just hired that guy. He was shaping up to be a good member of the staff. And then he had to go and get his guts removed. Inconsiderate slacker," Sarge grumbled. "Can't believe one of my own Reds would do this.”

"Maybe you should take down the flag," Wash said. He stood in the corner of the office, arms crossed. "From what North got out of Donut, it sounded like this was some kind of disturbing sacrifice to your flag. Take it down and they won't have anything to worship."

"Take down the Red flag?!" Sarge looked absolutely scandalized by the thought. "Son, would you take down the American flag just because some hippy used it to smoke weed?"

"...What."

"Of course you wouldn't! No, no, the flag stays."

Wash sighed. "Alright, fine."

Sarge frowned at his paperwork. Not only was it inconsiderate for Henderson to get killed after only a day of duty, but it was also raising some awkward questions with the police. They were currently checking the scene in the infirmary, but they intended to return to Sarge's office to ask more questions. And cops never understood how Sarge ran things.

"Moving on from the flag… We need a temporary infirmary," Flowers said. "Do we have any spare rooms?"

"We got a few," Sarge said. "On the... left side of the prison somewhere. Washington! You're back to being the temporary doctor, and your first job as that is to find an empty room. Get to it!"

“Permission to switch duties with literally anyone else?”

"Permission denied."

"Great...”

 

* * *

 

“Churro? I brought you food.” Caboose held out some orange juice and a roll with some mystery meat on it.

Donut stared back at the food, then nodded his head slightly towards the IV. “Don't think I can yet. I'm… I'm not really that hungry, anyway.”

"Are you okay?"

"Apart from the same injuries as before, I'm fine." Physically, anyway. Donut's hand kept returning to the shiv, trying to discreetly check on it without Caboose noticing. Donut kept turning it over in his hand, thinking. He didn't want to think about it... didn't want to think about the attacks and murders... But he couldn't help it.

He wished Caboose would start one of his usual nonsensical conversations, so that there would be some kind of distraction. But Caboose was quiet. He kept poking at the sides of his face, tugging at the sides of his mouth. He looked troubled about something.

"You alright, Caboose?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm... I'm fine."

Donut nodded and returned to staring down at his sheets.

 

* * *

 

"That is disgusting," Church remarked, as he prodded his dinner around on his plate. Tucker had gone looking around the infirmary to try and figure out why it was 'out of order.' Turned out he only needed to get a glance to figure it out.

"I know, right? Absolutely gross." Tucker gestured with his spoon. "Smells pretty gross, too. I mean, just blood is one thing. But it smelt like someone took a dump on a bag of rotten meat."

"Dude, not while I'm eating," Grif complained, before returning to his food.

Honestly, Tucker was kind of disappointed that his graphic explanation of what was up there had done little to disturb the others. He'd put as much effort into the dramatic explanation as possible, and what did he get? Church simply saying it was gross, Grif still continuing to eat despite his complaint, and Simmons had barely blinked an eyelid. Tucker was sure Caboose wouldn't have really reacted to the story, either, had he been present at the table. Though more because he had no idea what the word 'disembowel' meant.

"You guys are no fun," Tucker groaned, before returning to his food. "I put effort into that. Fucking effort. Couldn't you at least give one gasp of horror? Come on."

"I think you need something else to do with your time, seriously," Church muttered. He wasn't eating much. He looked tired, too. Weird. Tucker pulled a face before looking around the cafeteria.

He was just looking around for anyone who might be willing to swap portions of their meal for other, nicer portions. Instead, his stomach dropped a little, because there was a familiar face staring back at him. One that he hadn't seen in a couple of years.

But Tucker still recognised him. Recognised the face. More than that, recognised the hands. Hands which were now crippled, the fingers deformed and useless. But which had once been used to beat Tucker so thoroughly that he'd never quite healed from it.

Tucker nudged Church in the back.

"What, Tucker?"

"Miller. He's back.”

 

* * *

 

 

Frustration was setting in, amongst everything else Donut was feeling. Frustration at being immobile. About not being able to do anything. (If he'd been able to move, maybe he could have done something, maybe Henderson wouldn't have—)

That turned into frustration at being stuck here. First here was 'this room.' But then it became this prison. It was at times like this that Donut missed the outside most of all.

“Caboose?”

“Yes, Butter Pecan?”

“What do you miss most about the outside?”

“I was outside earlier today. There was sunshine!”

“No, I meant outside the walls. Outside the prison.”

“Oh. Out there?”

"Yeah."

"That is a very hard one."

"I know, right? There's a lot of things I miss. Kind of hard to choose just one thing," Donut admitted. "I mean, the first thing I'd probably do if I got let out was to find some nice food and a bed that doesn't feel lumpy."

"No, that is not why it is difficult," Caboose said quickly. "It is hard because I would not want to go back out there."

"Huh? Really?"

"Yes."

Donut stared at Caboose incredulously. "You seriously wouldn't want to go out there? Seriously? You like being in this box?"

"It is not a box, Gelato. It is a building."

"But… it's a prison!"

"Well, yes... But I like it here. Most of the time." Caboose frowned. "I do not like it when the mean people do bad things. Like O'Malley and Mr. Spaniel. But besides that, it is a lot less scary than... than out there."

"You have got to be kidding. It's not scary out there.

""Yes, it is. It is big and I get lost and there was lots of mean people. And I always ended up hungry because I could not understand the can opener and the stove hurt me. Also, there were boogeymen in the closets." Caboose lowered his voice to a whisper. "There were also boogeymen in the prison, but Church told me the guards chased them out." He started speaking normally, and now his face brightened up. “Now people make meals for me, I do not get lost, and all my friends live very close. It is like a very long sleepover.”

"You don't miss anything? What about the people out there?”

"Sheila is out there. But she visits me, so I still see her here. And Church is in here. So are you, Cheesecake. And those are all the people who still like me."

"Don't you have, like, seventeen sisters? I thought your family was huge, not even one of them comes to see you?"

"They do not want to. I told you that."

"Because you killed some people?"

"I did not."

"Okay, because the people who arrested you thought you did?"

"Yeah, I... I think so." Caboose looked down at the floor. He suddenly looked like he was about to cry. “Last time I saw Papa, he said he was going to pretend I died in the car accident. I… I guess he is a good pretender, too.”

Donut couldn't say anything to that. He couldn't even show some sign of solidarity. Caboose was sitting just too far for him to reach. God, if one of his mothers had said something like that to him…

Even though it felt like a bad idea, he asked anyway. “What about your mother?”

Caboose's eyes widened a little and he shook his head.

“I'm not allowed to remember that. Church said so.”

“Not allowed—“

“He said no,” Caboose said, his voice rising.

"Oh. ...Okay.”

Donut stared at the ceiling for a bit, mulling things over, before letting out a little gasp. “I know. I have the perfect solution to your fears of the outside world. You could move in with me! We'd become roommates, I could stop you from getting lost and cook for you, and you could… not try to kill me! Which is more than my last roomie did.”

“But we hang out already, Snickerdoodle.”

“But we could still hang out. And we'd have cake.”

“Ooh. I like cake.”

“Who doesn't?”

 

* * *

 

O'Malley had said he would call in a week. But there hadn't been a call that day. If anything, Doc was even more worried.

Doc stood at the edge of the parking lot, waiting. He knew that a lot of guards finished their shift at around this time. He had to find one of them, ask what was happening. Doc's hands were jammed in the pockets of his purple jacket. He could feel his phone in one of them. He kept turning it over in his hands.

Doc knew the sane thing to do would be to switch numbers. Or just throw the mobile phone into a trashcan. Then he wouldn't have to spend his evenings staring at it, horribly afraid it would ring. He had actually thrown it in the trash after O'Malley called the first time. But he'd retrieved it almost immediately. Why? He had absolutely no idea. He was terrified, and yet he kept carrying the phone around with him. He also knew that it'd be more sane to do something like flee the country. Go somewhere that O'Malley could never reach him, never find him, even if he did manage to escape. But it wasn't O'Malley himself who'd really made him leave, had it? Only the realization of how much damage he was doing. If that damage continued when he wasn't there... then what?

As Doc stood there, fingers touching the mobile phone in his pocket, he heard voices from across the dark parking lot.

"What a day. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this job?"

"You have, actually. Pretty much every day since you took it."

"Well. Today was particularly bad."

Doc recognised the voices as Wash and York immediately. Doc would have preferred to speak to other guards. He had nothing against York, but Wash was just too intimidating and he just didn't trust him when it came to telling the truth. Still, he had to ask someone. And if they tried to lie, York's horrible lying ability would tip him off. Doc hurried towards the voices so he could catch them before they left.

"Hey, you want to go get some drinks?" he heard York say.

"I just want to go home.”

“You sure?”

“Besides, we went drinking yesterday.”

“But that was post-graveyard-maintenance drinking. This will be forget-what-happened-today drinking. It's slightly different. Come on. It'll be fun. As long as you don't get really drunk off Mai Tais again. I mean, that was hilarious, but—“

"Tomorrow, maybe."

"Cool."

"Hey, um... guys?" Doc called out once he spotted them. York fiddling with his keys and Wash standing next to him, looking even moodier than usual.

"Doc? What are you doing here? Weren't you fired?" York asked.

"Um, yeah. I'm... I'm not here for work. I just wanted to ask you something." Doc scraped his foot against the ground, looking nervous. "Uh. Has anything happened since I left?"

"You have got to be kidding me," Wash muttered. “You have got to be—you knew!” His voice veered upwards abruptly. “You knew something was going to happen!” He stepped towards Doc, suddenly looking furious.

Doc backed up, raising his hands. “No! No, I… I… it was, um...” He realised he hadn't come up with an excuse. “Intuition! Intuition, that's all!” he babbled.

Wash looked like he was about to punch Doc, but York grabbed his arm.

“Dude, calm down,” York said quietly. Wash shook him off.

“Intuition? Really. You drove all the way to your old workplace just because you had a bad feeling about something?!”

“...Yes?” Doc looked between Wash and York. “Something… something has happened, then?” His stomach dropped. He'd been hoping that O'Malley had somehow faked the photo of the ear.

“Yeah,” York sighed. “Since you left, it's been pretty bloody. Day after you left, O'Malley attacked Donut. Nearly beat him to death. Removed one of his ears. He's still pretty much immobile.”

Doc felt guilt writhe in his stomach, but at the same time he felt relief.

“He's still alive? That's… that's good.”

"Better than what we can say for Henderson," Wash muttered.

Oh no.

"Who?"

"He's your replacement. Or at least he was." Wash took another step forward. "Funny you would show up today. Does your intuition just happen to tell you when people have been gutted by insane flag worshippers?"

Doc's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Gutted? They... That's a metaphor, right? He didn't... literally…"

"I mean that as literally as possible."

"I... No, even for O'Malley, that's…"

"It wasn't O'Malley," Wash interrupted him. "I told you. It was one of those idiots who worship the flag. You know who I'm talking about? The squeaky one?"

"Yeah, I think so... He kept asking me if I'd accepted the flag as my saviour," Doc said quietly. "He did that?"

"Yeah. O'Malley couldn't have done anything, he was in SHU for what he did to Donut."

Doc put a hand out to lean on the nearest car, mentally apologising to whoever the owner was for the possible handprint. He couldn't believe the Red Zealot would do that. He'd always seemed like a nice kid. A little pushy about religion, but… how could he do something like that?

But... maybe O'Malley had nothing to do with that death. Maybe that one isn't his fault.

Maybe it wasn't Doc's fault.

It could just be coincidence that it happened on the same day O'Malley said something bad would happen. Coincidence that the man who'd gotten killed had been filling Doc's old position. O'Malley couldn't have… unless he'd convinced the Zealot somehow, but he—

Doc was grasping at straws. But he had to. He couldn't have another death on his conscience, he just couldn't.

"Okay. I... I guess I'll just go home now." Doc turned around, started to trudge towards where he'd parked. He stopped when Wash spoke up again.

“How did you know? How did you know someone would die?”

“I didn't know someone would die,” Doc said quietly. He didn't know exactly what was going to happen, just that something was going to.

"Doc, you're just as bad a liar as York.”

"Hey!" York protested.

“How'd you know? Is it some deal you have with someone on the inside? That they'll keep killing until you have your job back?”

“I resigned!”

“And maybe you've realised you won't get another job as a doctor and you want your job back,” Wash said dismissively. "Or maybe you just heard it was going to happen and were too afraid to say anything. Either way, you knew, and if you'd told us beforehand—"

Doc straightened up a little, staring up at Wash. “It's hypocritical, you accusing me of that sort of thing when you're a corrupt guard yourself,” Doc said slowly. Addressing the complete falsehood of the first scenario while trying to ignore the truth of the second.

“Corrupt, huh?”

“I haven't forgotten, you know. O'Malley turning up with head wounds in a place only guards could get into?”

"That never happened. Who said that happened? We weren't even on duty that day," York said quickly. "I mean, I don't even know what you're talking about…"

"There is a very big difference there, Doc. O'Malley is the lowest of the low. I would say he was dirt, but that would be an insult to dirt," Wash said coolly.

“Wash, don't tell him that!” York whispered, teeth gritted.

"Whatever might have happened to him, he would have deserved it. There is a difference between giving out something that a bad person had coming to them, and keeping quiet and letting an innocent person be killed because you were too afraid to say anything."

Doc bit his lip nervously before turning away again. "I'm... I'm leaving, now."

He only made it two steps away before a strong hand gripped his upper arm. Immediately, every nerve Doc had went into complete overdrive.

“If this happens again, Doc… then we're going to talk,” Wash said. He was far too close. Doc could feel body warmth and his skin crawled at the touch. No-one touched him nowadays, except for O'Malley. How could he not think of him? How could he not think of spearmint covering up salt?

Doc yanked his arm away and didn't reply, leaving before Wash could grab him again. He kept walking until he was out of Wash and York's sight. Then he slumped and covered his face, fingers twisting in his hair as he tried—and failed—to regain his calm. If he'd ever had that calm to begin with.


	11. Chapter Nine: Sitting Duck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Malley decides on a very risky plan. Sheila and Sister both visit the prison. And Wash vents five years of angry confusion at Donut.

Donut didn't sleep well that night.

It started off as the old dream. The old dream of Maine attacking him. Same old dream of plunging a knife continuously into his chest until long after he'd stopped moving.

Same old smell. The same coppery scent of blood drying on the pink carpet of his apartment. But then the smell changed. Changed into something nastier, something even more nauseous than just blood. Donut looked at his hands, which were soaked with blood, then looked down at the corpse he was kneeling next to.

It was no longer Maine. It was Henderson, now. Stomach slashed open, guts tumbling onto the same pink carpet.

But the Donut in the dream didn't stop stabbing. Even though Henderson was no danger, nothing but blood and guts anyway, Donut kept stabbing.

Hands rested on his shoulder, and Donut wanted to turn. He couldn't.

"Accept his Holy Flappiness," he heard the Red Zealot say. "Or you will be the next sacrifice."

Donut felt the hands on his shoulders move down, skimming his sides before reaching around and pressing against his stomach. Where the shiv would dig in if he didn't do as the crazy zealot said. His hands felt strange. Warm and sticky, like Donut's blood-soaked ones.

He didn't remember anything between that and the zealot ending up under his knife, too. And he didn't remember much else from the dream, either. Except for the knife going up and down, the smell growing more and more potent, and the echoes of familiar manic laughter.

Whatever else had happened, it made Donut wake up with a shriek that cut off into a pained yelp because he'd moved too fast when he woke up.

"Donut, what the hell?" he heard Simmons mumble. "What are you yelling about?"

"Um... Nothing. Nothing, just... Nothing."

"Then quit it."

"Okay.”

Donut didn't go back to sleep after that.

 

* * *

 

O'Malley was, by this point, cradling his head in his hands in a last-ditch effort to alleviate the headache. Headache seemed like such a deceptively mild word. It was more like someone stabbing him in the face every few seconds, and in the stomach as well. He curled up on his cot and rocked slightly back and forth. The sedatives actually had a bonus in the shoe. When he was on them, he was usually so out of it that the time just kind of rolled by. Even on his regular meds, at least he wasn't subject to these pains. At the moment, he had to feel every agonizing second of shoe time. It had only been a couple of days. A month or more of this was pure torture.

He wanted out so badly. Boredom was the thing that O'Malley despised more than anything. And shoe was nothing but being isolated from anything that could be considered even slightly interesting.

He could hear pacing and movement a couple of cells down. The Red Zealot was practically bouncing off the walls in there. O'Malley could hear him moving around, doing his 'morning worship ritual.' Which mostly consisted of chanting, from what O'Malley could hear. Didn't help the headache.

As O'Malley shut his eyes, trying to block out the too-bright lights, he heard footsteps. He could hear South grumbling. The guard shoved a tray of food through the slot before moving on. O'Malley glared at the food tray, then sat up. His eyes landed on the little paper cup sitting on the tray.

A little paper cup of pills.

The pills had stopped coming with the new doctor. Presumably, Wash was back in the position and had reverted back to sending drugs.

Before he had time to think, O'Malley had already grabbed the cup of pills and tipped them into his mouth. He was halfway through washing them down with orange juice when he realised what he was doing.

O'Malley glared at the empty paper cup. He shouldn't need them. But he felt so… ill without them. He couldn't think of a good plan… a real method of escape… with his brain fogged up by his meds. But he also couldn't if he was suffering from the headaches and nausea that came with not taking them.

As he continued to glare at the paper cup, he heard a tray being given to the Zealot, and the Zealot muttering about 'multi-coloured relics of purgatory.' That probably meant pills. O'Malley had seen him receiving pills before.

O'Malley stared at the empty cup for a few more moments, his pain-clogged mind struggling with pieces of a rather foggy plan.

He needed to be out of this cell if he could continue causing problems. And the only way he was getting out of the shoe early was if he had to go to the infirmary. Perhaps if he had to go to the infirmary due to an overdose. Granted, if Washington was the doctor at that time he'd probably let O'Malley die quite gleefully. But there would possibly be another doctor in by that point…

Inherent risks to messing around with medication, certainly. Possible death, for one. But... the risk just made it more interesting. And what did he have to lose? Another decade or so of prison life? He was getting old. Even if something did happen, at least he'd be going out on his own terms instead of degrading slowly until he petered out because of a heart attack or a brain tumor.

Once he could no longer hear the guard's footsteps, O'Malley peered through the slot towards the Red Zealot's cell.

"Zealot. I have a request."

"Yes, O holy prophet! Tell me what to do and it shall be done!" the high-pitched voice chirped back, sending new waves of pain through O'Malley's head.

"The 'multi-coloured relics of purgatory' you received. Your prophet requires them for a sacred task. Hand them over."

"Are you sure, O prophet? The relics are highly dangerous. I have seen acolytes fall from—"

"Did I ask for your opinion?! I have seen fit to relieve you of the burden, and to tell you to pass it on to any followers that may be imprisoned here."

"You... are kind and gracious, O prophet. I will alert the others at once!"

After a few minutes of fidgeting around, the Red Zealot threw something his way. It rolled within reach of O'Malley and he picked it up. It was the juice box that came with every meal. O'Malley shook it and heard a rattle. He pulled the box open to find that the Zealot had shoved the pills through the tiny hole up the top. O'Malley grinned and put the meds in a corner of his cell.

It wasn't yet time to go to the infirmary. He would wait. Then he would take them. And that would get him out of this cell, and hopefully next to another potential victim.

Admittedly, this plan was grasping on straws. But what else was there? He was a desperate man, by this point. Desperate men do desperate things.

 

* * *

 

Donut was still on edge the next morning. Especially because the cells were quiet. During this time of the day, very few inmates were around. Most of them were working. Most of the guards were in other places, too. Sticking to wherever most of the inmates were, making sure there was no trouble.

So when a voice did speak up, Donut was startled. He may have shrieked just a little bit. This got an irritated sigh from the person standing outside his cell.

"Don't act so startled," Wash muttered, dragging in a stretcher. York was following him. "We have a room set up as a temporary infirmary. We're moving you there."

"Oh. Okay."

Donut had the shiv clasped in his hand under the sheets. As Wash and York shifted the stretcher and talked amongst themselves, Donut tried to wedge it between his mattress and the wire frame of the cot without them noticing. It wouldn't hold up if anyone searched his cell, but he'd have to risk it. He couldn't do much else with them in the room.

Once they got him onto the stretcher they carted him out of the cell block. It was a relief to be moving again. Admittedly, Donut wasn't so much moving as being carried. But it counted. At least he wasn't completely still. And being on a stretcher was kind of fun. Although being moved on and off the stretcher kind of hurt.

The temporary infirmary was tiny. It was closer to a large closet than an actual room. A couple of cots had been crammed in there, and there was a box that Donut assumed had medical supplies in it. Other than that, nothing.

"It'll do for now. We don't even have a proper doctor, so I guess the room... kind of fits," Wash muttered.

"Could be worse. Knowing Sarge, I was half-expecting him to get the temporary infirmary set up in the laundry closet or something, in order to save space," York observed. He headed towards the door. "I'm already late for my shift. Good thing Sarge never notices stuff like that. Meet you in the parking lot later? You said we'd go drinking."

"I said maybe."

"Well, fine. I might see you, then. If you want to be vague about it." York left, and Wash sat down on the stool he'd managed to cram into the room. He crossed his arms and didn't say anything.

It was awkward. Still, it felt a whole lot safer than down in the cells. Donut was finally able to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

 

"You don't think Miller will try something, will he?" Tucker muttered, as he folded up jumpsuits. Church frowned at the wall, as he moved the iron back and forth.

"Who knows. You get any information on what he did this time?"

"Robbed a store, I'm told. Apparently he couldn't hold the gun right because of the fucked up fingers." Tucker shrugged. "If you ask me... it seems a little weird. I mean, why do a crime where the odds of fucking up are that high. Seriously, this bank was only a couple of blocks from a police station, and he can't even hold a fucking gun. It's like he was trying to get back here. Who the fuck would do that?"

"I would do that," Caboose said. He was also folding up jumpsuits. He'd been listening quietly to the conversation, and hadn't chipped in until that. "The outside is scary."

"Yeah? For dumbasses like you, maybe," Tucker said. Caboose frowned slightly at that, but otherwise ignored Tucker.

"Mister Miller cannot do things with his hands any more. A lot of things out there need hands to do," Caboose said flatly. "The people in prison do all those things for him. People cook food for him and he does not have to drive anywhere. Prison is much easier. So he came back."

"Okay, that actually made some sense," Tucker observed. "Caboose making sense. Did I wake up in opposite land?"

"Well, that still doesn't explain if he's gonna try anything or not," Church said. "He didn't do anything after... you know."

"After he got his fingers caught in a door?" Caboose said brightly.

"Yeah. That. He didn't do shit after that."

"If he does anything, I have to kill him. I said I would. And it is always good to keep promises."

"Hey!" Church gestured for Caboose to be quieter. "Not while the guards are around."

"Sorry."

"I don't want to start anything unless he's actually planning on doing something," Church said. "For now, let's just watch. If he shows signs of planning anything violent... then we'll figure out what to do."

"Alright…"

A few minutes later, Tucker dropped the last of a pile of jumpsuits into a basket and then started lugging the basket across the room. Once he was out of earshot, Church nudged Caboose quickly.

"Caboose? I don't quite trust Miller to keep his fucked up hands to himself. So keep an eye on Tucker, make sure he doesn't get hurt. Can you do that?"

"I can do that. Even if it means helping Tucker."

"Good. But don't tell Tucker I told you to.”

 

* * *

 

There were certain things that Donut didn't want to wake up to. Opening his eyes to seeing an imposing, blurry figure standing right over him was in the top three. For a moment, Donut thought it was the Zealot, here to finish what he started. The only thing that stopped him from screaming was fear paralyzing him even more than the injuries had.

It took him a moment to realise it was Wash. He briefly calmed down. Then he tensed up again, because Wash wasn't doing anything. He was just staring down at Donut with this hostile look on his face.

“Um?” Donut asked.

Wash didn't say anything. Just turned around and walked away to the other side of the room, where all the necessary medical things had been haphazardly stacked. He looked at the various things, but he didn't seem to find them interesting. He kept looking back at Donut.

“Is something wrong?”

Wash didn't respond. He picked up a random container of medication and started examining it, but quickly put it back down again before starting to pace. There was something very agitated about the way he was walking. Slightly bouncing on his feet, a frown on his face.

Three more seconds of silence. Then Wash wheeled around and started yelling.

“How?! How did you do it?”

Donut flinched at the sudden noise, wishing he could shift further away. “I… I don't know what you're talking about.”

“How'd you do it? I keep looking for some sort of hidden thing that would have let you do that, but I can't see it! Why?”

“Do what?!”

“How did you kill the Meta?!”

Donut opened his mouth, paused, then squinted at Wash. “Who?”

“Don't play stupid with me, Donut.” Wash's stare was rather stony, and he was absolutely focused on Donut's face. “The Meta. How did you do it? How. Did. You. Kill. Him?”

“I don't know what a Meta is!”

“He's the reason you're here! Don't pretend like you don't—“

“Oh, Maine? Wait, wait, wait. You knew him?”

Wash leaned back on the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose. “...In a matter of speaking, I did. I knew him well enough to know that he is not an easy man to kill.” Unable to stay still, he started pacing again. “Wasn't supposed to happen. Wasn't supposed to happen until—“ He stopped, then turned around, resting his hands on the bedframe and leaning over Donut, his pale grey eyes boring into Donut's brown ones. “So how?”

"I... I don't...” Donut shut his eyes to avoid the stare. “Why are you asking me?"

"Because I want to know. I have to know."

Donut tried pressing himself a little further into the mattress, anything to put distance between them. He opened one eye a little.

“But why?”

“I just do.”

“That's not an answer.”

“I'll give you an answer if you give me one.”

Donut opened and shut his mouth a few times voicelessly before finally answering. "It... it was just luck, that's all. Can you maybe not lean over like that, it's kinda—"

"Bullshit."

"No, it's not!"

"You expect me to believe it was luck? You really expect me to believe that?!"

Donut had always gotten this weird feeling about Wash. That he wasn't… quite stable. He'd always kind of dismissed it as just an impression influenced by Church's insistence that Wash was insane. Now, though? The cracks were definitely showing.

"I-It really is the truth. Why are you getting so... so angry about this?"

"Why am I getting so angry?"

Donut could feel fury emitting from every syllable. Wash let go of the bedframe and started pacing again.

“Because I met the Meta. And he… him and his… those other… they… look, it's just… I had something to settle with him. I spent years looking for him. Making sure I was prepared so when I saw him this time… then I'd be ready, and… and he wouldn't beat me.”

The pacing got faster before Wash stopped. He was rubbing his forearm, fingers tracing something that Donut couldn't see. Then Wash let out this short, bitter bark of a laugh.

“And then I find him. I see his photo in a newspaper, under an article saying that he'd been murdered by his roommate. And in either the best or worst coincidence ever… the roommate gets sent here. And I'm expecting… someone. Someone who could have done that, who could have beat him. And what do I get?”

Wash struggled with words for a moment before turning around again, brandishing his hands at Donut.

“I get… I get you! Some… some… “ This time, Wash slammed his hands back down on the bedframe, his voice reaching an unheard of pitch. “SOME LITTLE RAY OF SUNSHINE WHO COULDN'T HURT A FLY!”

Donut shut his eyes in an attempt to block out the expression on Wash's face. Half-expecting Wash to attack him.

“...So. Yes. I'm a little resentful.” Wash's voice was calm again, but Donut was still shivering. If anything, the sudden switch was even scarier. The jitteriness of Wash's motions had gone away, however. This time, Wash sat down and pulled some files towards him, and started going through them like nothing had happened.

Donut didn't dare move an inch. Time passed. It may have been half an hour later before Wash finally spoke again.

“I'm warning you, Donut. Everyone else—your friends, the guards, even the warden—they might all be tricked by your harmless act. But I know better. And someone like the Meta doesn't die because of 'luck.' And if you keep pretending… if you don't tell me how you really killed him? I will make you tell me. And it will hurt.”

"But... i-i-it really w-was..." Donut started, his voice shaking, before Wash interrupted him.

"If you're not telling me the truth, I don't want to hear it.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Sheila visited Lopez.

Sheila did not lose her cool easily. Keeping her head around patients was a necessity, especially for neurologists. Many of her patients were often in delicate states emotionally and psychologically, and the last thing they needed was their doctor to lose it. There wasn't much that could phase her.

Seeing Lopez on the other side of that glass with a broken nose, dark hand-shaped bruises around his neck and moving gingerly, like he was afraid something inside him would collapse at any moment… well, that was something big enough to make Sheila's calm implode.

“ _What happened to you?!_ ”

" _Calm down. It's nothing._ "

" _That is not nothing! Were you attacked? Are you okay? Did you go to the infirmary?_ _Did you get someone to check you? You're not bleeding internally, are you?_ _Are—_ "

" _It's nothing,_ " Lopez repeated.

" _Tell me what happened._ ” Sheila paused, then sighed. “ _You didn't start insulting the other Spanish prisoners_ _again_ _, did you?_ _Lopez, you can't maintain that level of sarcasm in prison, the people there aren't exactly the most controlled._ "

“ _No, this is unrelated._ ” Lopez frowned, looking downwards. “ _The short version? I helped hurt someone in exchange for protection. His friends didn't like it.” Lopez gestured at his bruises. “This is how they return the favour. It's not as bad as it looks._ ”

Sheila rested her head in her hands briefly. “ _Stop putting on a brave face, Lopez. You did see a doctor, didn't you?_ ”

“ _I did. They sent me to an actual hospital. Good thing, too, since we have no actual doctor here right now._ ”

“ _You can't be serious._ ”

“ _The first one was incompetent and got fired. The second one… the second one was murdered._ ”

“ _Murdered?_ ”

“ _Apparently. Pity. He actually seemed to know what he was on about._ ”

“ _I knew it wasn't the best place, but I didn't think it was like this,_ ” Sheila said quietly. She started idly twisting her wedding ring around on her finger. When she'd spoken to Caboose over the last few years, he'd rarely mentioned bad things. Usually, he'd talked about his friends. Was it only bad now? Or had Caboose just not noticed?

“ _It's a bloodbath waiting to happen. If it hasn't started already._ ”

Sheila looked up again to examine Lopez more closely. It wasn't just the injuries that worried Sheila. Lopez looked more subdued than normal. He was always grumpy, of course, but he looked melancholy as well.

“ _How are you? I know you're not well._ ”

Lopez put his face in his hands. “ _It feels like Hell, Sheila. Everyone here is either an idiot, murderous or both._ _I_ _'ve managed to isolate myself from the entire Spanish-speaking population of this prison,_ _even the one who only understood half of what I said_ _._ _It's been less than a month, and knowing this is going to continue for decades..._ ” Lopez shook his head. “ _I don't know how Donut keeps a cheery attitude in this place._ ”

“ _Is there anything you'd like me to do?_ ”

Lopez lowered his hand from his face before pressing his fingers against the glass.

“ _Keep visiting me. I can keep going just for that. Will you do that?_ ”

Sheila raised her hand to press her fingers against the glass, too. “ _You don't even need to ask._ ”

A tiny smile appeared on Lopez's face. “ _Then I'll be fine._ ” He paused, then added, “ _I miss you._ ”

“ _I miss you, too._ ”

After a stretch of silence, they both lowered their hands again.

“ _If you need someone to protect you… I could ask Caboose about it. He's an old patient of mine, and he seems to know the sorts of inmates who deal in protection. If I asked him, maybe he could help._ ”

Lopez frowned. “ _Him? I don't think that's going to happen._ ”

“ _Are you sure? He's muddled, but he's nice enough. Have you met him?_ ”

“ _Yes. I have. He introduced me very thoroughly to his fists._ ”

Sheila leaned back in her chair. She stared at the bruises around Lopez's neck before meeting his eyes again.

“ _Caboose did this?_ ”

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry for running off last time, alright? I was just... you know." Grif had spent the last few minutes babbling rather incoherent apologies for running off in the middle of Sister's last visit. All the while trying to avoid the reason why he'd gotten so upset in the first place.

"You should be sorry. That was really uncool." Sister pouted at him. "Seriously, it was mean. I think you're getting meaner in old age, Dex."

"Hey!"

"Ooooold."

"Go mock Simmons, he's the one going grey."

"But... but mocking you is more fun."

Grif drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him. "Whatever. So... you're doing okay, aren't you?"

"Awesome. I mean, I have to spend a lot of time lying down lately. The kid is super tiring, and he hasn't even been born yet. But otherwise, awesome."

Grif kept drumming his fingers on the desk. He was slightly hoping that there was some problems happening, just so that he could do something for Sister. Of course, he then mentally punched himself for hoping that. Sister not needing help was a good thing. He was just being clingy.

"Cool, cool."

Sister looked down at her pregnant stomach, patting it gently. "I need to think of a name for him."

"A name?" Grif raised an eyebrow. "You know I'm gonna insist on whatever names I can remember from action movies, right?"

"Oh, right. I don't want to name him after Bruce Lee.”

"Come on, it'd be awesome. Bruce Lee Grif."

"But I don't like Bruce Lee movies! They were boring!"

"I am so tempted to disown you right now." Grif sat back in his chair. "I don't have any other ideas. I mean, there's that whole 'naming them after relatives' thing. But we don't know Dad's name. Please don't name him after Mom."

"But I can't think of another name…"

"Oh, so you wouldn't name a boy Bruce Lee but you would name him Kamoana?"

"Okay, okay. Well, naming him after you would just be weird. Dexter is a lame name, anyway."

"Yeah…"

Sister pondered for a moment, and her eyes slid over to the door which inmates passed through on their way in and out of the room. "What's Simmons' first name?"

"Okay, if you name your kid 'Dick' then I'm gonna be obliged to make a lot of weiner jokes."

"Middle name?"

"Shirley."

"...Really?"

"Yeah, I don't know what his parents were on, either.”

 

* * *

 

"Sheeeeeeeeila!" As per usual, Caboose forgot about the glass in between them and crashed into it. "Ow." Sheila's response to this was to just quietly sit there. Caboose sat down quickly, fidgeting around cheerfully. "Sheila, Sheila, Sheila! I am so happy to see you." He looked at Sheila for a few more moments, then tilted his head. "Sheila, why are you staring at me like that?"

"You tried to strangle my husband."

"No, I did not."

"Yes, you did."

"Noooo. No, I did not. Please stop staring at me like that. It is scary."

Sheila's eyes only narrowed. She was not acting like a kind doctor. Through everything, from the car accident to being stuck in prison, Sheila had always been nice to him. She had been nice and hadn't yelled at him like Mama and Papa and all the angry policemen. She had always been nice. But now, she had a very angry expression. She was not shouting, but the cold fury was worse than any amount of screaming.

"Why would you do something like that?" Sheila asked.

Caboose normally was good at pretending the bad stuff never happened. It was harder to do when Sheila was staring at him like that.

"It was not my fault! He... he started it. He hurt Soft Serve. And he... he is a bad man! He was doing bad things with O'Malley! And he... Fritter said he was a wife killer. He will hurt you! That is a bad thing!”

"Lopez has only been married once, and that was to me."

Caboose processed this for a moment. "You are a zombie?"

"No, my point was that he has not killed any wives."

"Yes, he has. Blueberry Pie said so."

"He hasn't. Your friend got it wrong."

"But Lopez is still a bad man! He... he really hurt Pop Tart. He is still not moving much. That... that is very bad."

"That's no excuse for strangling people. Caboose, you told me the last time was an accident."

"It was an accident. I did not mean to, I thought..." Caboose stopped, then shook his head. "No. No, she fell over. It was no-one's fault."

"I'd really like to believe you. I've tried. But... you've hit my bullshit meter one too many times."

"It... it is the truth…"

"I have to go back to the hospital soon. So I'm going to tell you something. Don't hurt Lopez again. Actually, more than that... I want you to keep him safe." Sheila's eyes narrowed even further, so much so that they were almost shut. "But I'm warning you, Caboose. You hurt one more hair on my husband's head and... and I will never visit you ever again."

Caboose's eyes widened. "No. No, don't do that. Please. Please say you are kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

She did not. Caboose shut his eyes, clasped his hands over his head.

"I... But... I…"

Caboose didn't want to protect Lopez. He wanted Lopez to go away. And he was protecting too many people already. Church and Donut and Tucker… he couldn't watch Lopez as well.

But he wanted Sheila to be happy with him. Or he'd have no-one left on the outside who still liked him.

"I... will try," Caboose said, lowering his hands and looking down.

"Good. Because if you don't... I'm going to be very disappointed in you.”

 

* * *

 

Donut lay awake at 3am. He was sleepy. But he was too afraid for sleep.

He knew, rationally, he probably didn't have anything to be afraid of right now. O'Malley and the Zealot were both in the shoe, and even if they hadn't been the cells were all locked up for the night, as was the door to the temporary infirmary itself. And Wash… Wash had gone home hours ago.

Donut hoped he had, anyway.

He kept staring at the door, expecting someone to burst through, ready to hurt him. Maybe even kill him, this time. O'Malley, the Zealot, Wash… occasionally, when he got particularly tired, he even expected it to somehow be Maine, because apparently Maine wasn't done haunting him.

And if they did, what could Donut do about it? He was practically immobile. One of his arms was basically functional, if painful, but he couldn't even try and walk away, let alone run. He was just a useless lump of bandages and stitches.

So if something happened, what would he do?

He had to be able to move. He didn't want to be attacked again. He was scared that he might not be able to survive another one.

Donut listened carefully. The prison was completely silent. If there was any noise going on in the cells, he wouldn't be able to hear it from where he was. Not unless it turned into a full-scale riot or something. Donut kept quiet for a few seconds, mostly listening for any guards walking by. When he heard nothing, he used his good hand to push himself into a sitting position. It hurt, but it was doable. Then he started trying to move himself so that his feet were dangling off the bed.

It felt like it took an hour. He couldn't move much at a time. But he moved his legs to the side a little at a time. Inch by agonizing inch. Finally, he managed to slide his legs off the bed, his feet on the ground for the first time in a week.

He placed his feet firmly on the ground and made to stand up. His intent had been to put his hand on the wall to steady himself, but he never made it that far. The moment pressure was put on his legs they gave away, his stomach already searing. He hit the ground and spent the next few minutes clinging to his stomach, where the pain was worst.

As far as Donut could tell, none of the stitches broke. That was something. Once the pain started to recede however, Donut realised he couldn't get up again.

He rolled slowly onto his back. That was the extent of what he could manage from the floor. Even less movement available. And no-one to call for help, since he'd made sure he couldn't hear any guards before he attempted movement.

“Bravo, Donut,” he said flatly. “Bravo.”

The only plus side was that the attempt had tired him out. Enough so that sleep became irresistible. Even so, he dreamed of bloodstains soaking a pink carpet and a knife in his hands.


	12. Chapter Ten: Overdose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Malley enacts his plan to get into the infirmary. It doesn't really go well for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (gestures at tags) Updates have been made and some of the tags that were already there come into play this chapter. I suppose if you've read this far it'll be nothing too new, but just in case.

Donut woke up to Wash prodding him with his foot. At least this time Wash didn't prod him in the torso.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“Uhh… nothing. I'm fine,” Donut said.

“Get back on the cot.”

“...I, uh… I can't.”

Wash sighed irritably before kneeling down and reaching out towards Donut. Donut immediately tried to shift away, Wash's outburst from the previous day still fresh in his mind.

“No, that's okay! I, um… I'll get back on the cot eventually. I'm fine down here. I don't need your help.”

“Oh, really. How long have you been on the floor?”

“Uh. ...It was really dark, so…”

"It's eight in the morning. You're not getting back to the cot yourself. Stop flinching." Wash scooped up Donut and dumped him back on the cot. Perhaps a little rougher than what was really necessary. Donut squeaked in pain, but Wash ignored it. "Why were you even on the floor in the first place?"

"I was… I was trying to walk."

“You're not supposed to walk yet. You haven't healed. You're lucky you're getting the chance at all. You should have died from that.”

Donut smiled slightly. Very slightly. "Oh, I've always been good at that. Surviving things that should have killed me, I mean. Like, when I was eight I got hit by a car going at full-speed. Went flying through the air. Only got a scrape. And when I was even younger I think there was some sort of accident my family was in... I don't remember it, just something the caretakers at the orphanage mentioned, I was only, like, three... but I got out okay. I mean, obviously, or I wouldn't be here. I've always been kind of lu—"

Donut stopped rambling before he said it was 'just luck' again. Wash had probably guessed what he was about to say, because his eyes kind of narrowed. But he didn't start shouting again, at least.

What was Donut supposed to say, though? It really was just luck. If it wasn't luck, either Donut had a guardian angel or he was secretly a really beautiful cockroach. It's not like being strong or skilled or whatever Wash thought he was could save him from, say, being hit by a car going at full-speed.

Still, Wash just looked more suspicious than ever. Donut felt that he really shouldn't have said anything. What if Wash went all crazy again? What if Wash really did decide to force the supposed truth out of him? Surviving an attack from O'Malley was one thing. But what was Donut supposed to do if a guard wanted to kill him? A guard could get him in places where an inmate couldn't. And if he tried to tell another guard, would they even believe him? Would they side with Wash? Would they just ignore it?

Even if the other guards would help him, who could Donut tell while he was stuck here?

Donut pulled the blanket over him as much as he could. He noticed it was a purple blanket. Doc must have left some of this things here. At this moment, despite knowing that Doc was terrible at his job, he really wished Doc was there instead of Wash. At least Doc tried to help.

 

* * *

 

Caboose had to keep turning his head. It was hard to keep a watch on different people. His neck was starting to hurt.

Church was fine. Turn slightly. Tucker was fine. Turn a lot more. Lopez was fine. Turn back to Church. Church was fine. Turn slightly…

Normally, Caboose would spend breakfast time playing around with his cereal before eating it. But he had no time. He had to keep watching Church and Tucker and Lopez. And once breakfast was done he would have to run really fast to make sure Donut was okay before he had to go and do laundry work.

Miller was watching them. He would keep looking up at their table and then quickly look down again. Go back to trying to pick up the spoon with his messed-up fingers. The next time he looked up, their eyes met very briefly.

Caboose smiled in the way that he'd seen Mama do when she had to talk to Dad. The smile that sort of looked like a 'hello, it's nice to see you' smile. But it was really a 'I don't like you, go away' smile. Miller looked away immediately. Caboose hummed cheerfully and went back to keeping an eye on Church, Tucker and Lopez.

He wished Miller would be silly and attack Tucker. Then Caboose could kill him and then he would not have to watch Tucker anymore. He did not like watching Tucker. Tucker was not a nice person. He said that Caboose was being 'a creepy bastard.' Stupid Tucker.

At least O'Malley wasn't around. Although, getting rid of him would be the best way to fix everything. And no-one would be mad at him, because O'Malley was a nasty man. But he was also scary. Really, really scary. Worse than the boogeyman, even. Whenever he was around, all Caboose could do was stay really still and hope O'Malley would leave. Even after all the bad things O'Malley had done... even after he'd hurt Donut badly... Caboose couldn't do anything. He was too scared. Because O'Malley knew all about the bad things Caboose had done. It was hard to pretend they never happened when O'Malley was telling him they did.

Caboose twisted in his seat, looked back at Lopez. He was sitting by himself, looking moody. Was he tricked by O'Malley, too? Like Donut was? Like Caboose was?

Caboose frowned, shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was confusing to think about, but it did not matter. He had to protect him either way. Or Sheila would hate him.

But what would happen if he hurt Donut again? He could not let Lopez hurt Donut again. But he did not want Sheila to hate him, either. If Lopez did anything too nasty... Caboose didn't know what he'd do.

Caboose pushed away his food tray. Thinking too hard always took away his appetite. And he had to visit Donut, anyway. The cafeteria was safe. If he was really, really, really fast... then everything would be good and no-one would die.

 

* * *

 

“Why can't you just point him out to us?”

“Because he's not in the room, dude. How am I supposed to point at someone who's not here?”

“And how are we supposed to kick the ass of someone we don't know?”

Tucker shrugged, leaning back on his seat. “I still don't see why you care. You kicked Lopez's ass. Isn't that enough? I'm sure the 'don't fuck with Donut' message was received.”

“Fuck no. All Lopez did was hold his arms back. O'Malley's the guy who really damaged him.”

“Ear for an ear,” Simmons added.

“Won't work,” Church muttered, paying more attention to his food.

“Says you,” Grif said dismissively.

“Just tell us what O'Malley looks like, alright?” Simmons said. “Then we can figure out the rest.”

“Old. How old is he, Church? He's gotta be old, right?” Tucker asked. Church just grunted. “Anyway, he looked old. Red hair. Shaky hands.”

“We're going to beat up an old man?” Simmons asked. “...That doesn't sound very—“

“An old man who stabbed the shit out of Donut,” Grif reminded him.

“Yeah, alright.”

“I told you, it won't work,” Church repeated.

“I don't see you offering to help.”

“Look, whatever he's up to and whatever's going on around here… the best way to get through it is to do that ostrich thing. Shove your hand into the sand and just ignore it. There's only two solutions if you're going to deal with O'Malley. Either you kill him straight up, or you just ignore him. Cutting off bits of him will only make him retaliate. He won't stop because you tried to intimidate him. He will lash back until you're either dead or just broken.”

“So? He deserves to lose an ear,” Grif said. “And if he keeps lashing back we'll just kill him.”

“Well, whatever you do, leave us the fuck out of it,” Church said.

“Wait, don't I get a say in this?” Tucker protested.

“No, you fucking don't. Stay out of it.”

“Jeez, bossy.”

Grif snorted. "Pfft. Hey, Tucker, why'd your invite your mother along?"

"Fuck off."

 

* * *

 

"No, I need another doctor immediately. ...Yeah, I know I hired that Henderson fella, but he got himself gutted. ...That ain't a metaphor, son. Look, I need a new doctor. Don't care who, as long as they can start work tomorrow. ...No, I promise this one won't die horribly. ...Well, probably won't. So you'll get back to me on it? Hello? ...Hello?" Sarge frowned, still holding the phone to his ear after the man had hung up. "That was unnecessarily rude. Bastard."

It was times like this when Sarge really missed the army. If a medic got disemboweled in the army, then whoever sent the medics out wouldn't just hang up the damn phone. They would send another goddamn medic. Sarge dropped the phone on the receiver, only to have it ring a few seconds later.

"Son of a…"

Flowers wasn't around at the moment. He was outside, trying to improve security by not spending his lunchtime playing cards or chess with Sarge. As such, Sarge was now without a secretary. Well, without anyone who did a secretary voice, anyway. Sarge picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yo, Sarge. How you doing, dude?" the voice on the other end said cheerfully.

"Vic?" That couldn't be good. If Vic was calling, he knew that there were problems. He never called unless it was bad news. "Something wrong?"

"I've been hearing some grade-A nasty here, dude. Grade-A nasty about that doctor dude you hired. Something about being carved like a Thanksgiving turkey, if you know what I mean. Hoping you could catch me up on that."

"Ah, yes. That ain't my fault, Vic. Henderson didn't even have the courtesy to stay alive for more than a couple of days! Lazy, no-good..." Sarge trailed off into mild grumbling.

"Yo, dude, I'm totally vibing the inconvenience here. Thought I better tell you what the skinny is. Hargrove's been getting mighty uppity at your antics, you dig? You know that speech he always makes about strong foundations and webs and people dropping their threads?”

“Ugh, not that again.”

“Yeah, that again. He's sending me over in a couple of weeks to, you know, size up the prison? See how it's shining. So, dude, I'm just warning you that you better get it together."

"I have to get it together?! You're acting like I gutted Henderson myself, you…"

"Dude, chill. Take a chill pill. Or a chill strip. Just chill, alright? I'm not even supposed to be warning you, but I know that things are pretty swampy there. Thought you could use a heads up. Don't say anything to the big man, alright? Mum's the word."

"Alright, but things are just fine here. Apart from the disembowelment. And the lack of doctors. And all these attacks. But a little fighting's good for them. Keeps them on their toes."

"Yo, dude, just fix what needs fixing, alright? No pun intended. ...Not sure what I meant by that."

Sarge hung up shortly afterwards before dialing the number of another medical clinic. He really needed that doctor now. Didn't want an inspection to take place without a doctor there.

 

* * *

 

Just an hour before the cells were locked up for the night, the mostly silent infirmary was interrupted by an irritable shout.

“Will you stop trying to sit up?!”

Donut winced at Wash's yelling as he tried to prop himself up. “I have to be ready!”

“You're just going to tear your stitches! And then I'll have to put up with you for even longer. Trust me, I'm not particularly big on that idea. So stop moving or I'll pepper spray you.”

“See, that's why I need to be ready to move! Because you keep threatening me!”

“Well, if you'd just tell me how you killed the Meta—“

“I don't have an answer that you like! Alright, then, if I'm such a badass, how come I'm stuck like this? How come I didn't just use my kung fu skills or special spy abilities or whatever it is you think I have?!”

Wash looked away, looking pensive. “Anyone can get overpowered if there's too much stacked against them.” After a pause, he looked at Donut. “I'm assuming someone helped O'Malley beat you up. You want to tell me who?”

Donut hesitated for a moment before saying, “No.” He was still angry at Lopez, but with all the beatings he'd paid his dues.

“In any case—“

Whatever Wash was going to say, it was interrupted by the lights suddenly turning off.

“Huh?” Donut looked up. “That's not normal, is it?”

He heard a few shouts from elsewhere in the prison, including Sarge's very distinctive 'what in sam hell?' Donut looked around, but in this darkness he couldn't see a thing.

"You think there was a blackout or something?"

Wash didn't answer.

"Wash?"

No answer. Just silence.

After a few more seconds, during which the only sound was various shouts from around the prison and a clashing noise that sounded like two dinner trays being smashed together, the lights flickered on again. Donut glanced up at the lights before looking at Wash.

Wash was sitting completely still, hands clenched into fists. He'd gone completely white, and there was this weird expression on his face. It was weird because Wash looked so... terrified... at that moment. Donut hadn't even imagined that Wash, badass if slightly off-kilter guard, would be scared of anything.

That was only for a moment, though. After that moment, Wash climbed to his feet. He still looked pale, but the scared expression had gone and he was back to being calm and detached.

"The electricity must have gone out," he said quietly. "It's a good thing it was only for a few moments, or else it would have meant trouble. You'll be fine, so I think I'll leave now. Lock up the infirmary for the night. Make sure nothing happened out there."

"Wash?"

"Most likely nothing, but I better go check."

“Are you afraid of the dar—“

“Not another word, Donut! Are we clear?” he snapped.

Donut gulped. "Crystal clear.”

 

* * *

 

"No, come on. Just send any doctor. Send your crappiest, I don't care as long as he knows enough to replace a goddamn security guard. Come on, you... Oh, you son of a barstool!" Sarge roared at the receiver.

After yet another failed attempt at acquiring a doctor, Sarge slammed the phone on the receiver before spending the next ten minutes glaring at it angrily. Trying to stare the phone into ringing again with an available doctor on the line. It didn't work. Mostly because the phone is not a sentient object that can be intimidated by an angry ex-soldier.

As if it wasn't bad enough that an inspection was coming up, not only did he still not have a doctor but the prison's generators were apparently on their last legs. Sarge supposed he should be thankful that the brief blackout yesterday had served as a warning sign, but still... that wasn't something a little elbow grease could fix. Still, at least Sarge could hire someone to fix that. It was a temporary job. Not like 'volunteering to be the doctor at a place where the last doctor was disemboweled.'

After ten minutes of nothing but a staring contest with his phone, Sarge started rummaging through his drawers. He knew he had a bottle of whiskey in there somewhere. He could have really gone for a pina colada, but he didn't have any cream of coconut. Eventually he located the whiskey and placed it on the desk before rummaging around for a shot glass. While he did this, he heard a voice speak up from the doorway.

"Sneaking alcohol to work now?"

"Shuddup, goldilocks."

Flowers took his regular seat on top of the desk, watching Sarge continue his search. "Now, Sarge. The rude names aren't good for the morale of the team."

"You're a dirty Blue! That means calling you names just helps the Red effort!"

"Drinking on the job isn't good for that, either," Flowers said, continuing as if he hadn't heard Sarge. "Not to mention against the rules."

"Feh. What does it matter? If I don't find a doctor soon, then I'm getting fired anyway. Don't think a few shots of whiskey is gonna hurt. Aha!" Sarge finally pulled out a shotglass. "Success. Thought you could hide from me, you diabolical piece of glass... Hey!"

Flowers had picked up the bottle of whiskey and was now holding it just out of Sarge's reach. It wasn't difficult, seeing as Sarge was vertically challenged.

"If you keep drinking, I'm going to have to tell your wife."

"Now that's just below the belt. Give me that! Don't make me pull rank, you—"

"If you get drunk on the job, I won't have to pull rank. You won't have a rank. So, no... either way, I'm not giving this back." Flowers slid off the desk, smiling apologetically. "You can have it back once we're off-duty. And before you threaten to fire me, I'll just point out that you can't put 'tried to stop me from drinking on the job' as the reason on the paperwork."

"I hate you."

Flowers chuckled. "Yes, you've said that before. Cheer up. Have some of my lunch."

"Spare me your girly whole-wheat bread.”

The phone rang as Flowers placed his lunch on the desk. Without even waiting for a prompt, Flowers picked it up and answered in his secretary voice.

"Hello?" There was a pause. "Sarge is in a meeting. Can I take a message?" Flowers listened for a moment, then quickly said, "If it's something like that, I think I can... call him out of the meeting. Hang on a minute." He covered the receiver. "She says she's a doctor."

"What? Give that here." Sarge grabbed the phone off him. "Hello? You a doctor?"

"Yes. I'm Dr. Sheila Filss, I'm a neurologist at Sidewinder Hospital. I was told there was a position open in your prison, Mr…"

"Just call me Sarge."

"Very well. I should say up front that I specialize in head injuries. My training in other areas is less complete. But if you have no better candidates, I would like to apply."

"Lady, if you have more medical knowledge than a security guard then you'll be more than enough. ...How do you feel about the colour blue?"

"I quite like the colour blue."

Sarge lowered the phone slightly to give Flowers a look. Like it was his fault that the next doctor had been infected with Blueism before they'd even hired her. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and a Blue was the only doctor available.

"Well, I suppose that'll do. Just don't brainwash any Reds."

"...I can do that."

"Okay. Show up here tomorrow."

"For an interview?"

"No, for the goddamn job, what do you think?"

"I assumed there would be at least an interview. For all you know, I could be a prank caller."

"Even if you were a prank caller it's better than not having a doctor at all."

"Well, I didn't expect to acquire the job so easily. I can't start right away, I have to sort out some loose ends where my old job is concerned. I think I can manage that in the next few days…"

"Urrghhh... that's pushing it."

"I apologize, but I can't leave any sooner."

"Alright, alright. Show up here in the next week and you've got a job." Sarge hung up. "Huh. Well, that was a cakewalk."

"A minute ago you were bemoaning that you were going to get fired," Flowers pointed out.

"Shuddup. Besides, that's one problem fixed. Gotta get the troops in order before the visit."

"You mean the inmates?"

"Yes. Them."

"I can do that for you. I'm not going to brainwash them, don't worry."

"If this is another one of your pep talks where you talk about bear hugs..." Sarge started.

Flowers smiled cheerfully. "As much fun as those are, no. Not at all like that.”

 

* * *

 

How long has it been? Five days, six days, a week?

O'Malley was curled up in the corner of his cell, staring at the juice box he'd been keeping the pills in. He wasn't sure how many he had in there, or even what the pills were for. But there was a good amount of them.

It might not have been a week. It could have been a day. It could have been a month. The longer his time in the shoe stretched on, the harder it was to tell.

He'd had to decline into taking his pills again, although he kept the little pile of the zealot's pills on stand-by. The migraines, the nausea, it had all been far too much. As much as taking his meds irritated him, it was the lesser of two evils. He also couldn't ask for any more pills. The zealots had started kicking up a fuss after not taking their meds. He'd distinctly heard the Red Zealot bemoaning the absence of colour or some such nonsense. It had calmed down after the next round of medication.

He rattled the box of pills again. It had to be enough. Probably too much, really. He almost hoped Doc hadn't returned while he'd been trapped in here. If he overdosed, Doc would likely try to fix it by doing something stupid. Like trying to get him to vomit them up, or giving him a drink to 'wash it down with,' like that would help.

O'Malley pulled apart the juice box, letting the colourful pills spill into his hand. He didn't know how much would be required to get him access into the infirmary. If he swallowed all of them, there was a good chance he'd die before the guards found him. Admittedly, that was a possibility regardless.

He considered taking them all. If Gary was here, he'd probably tell O'Malley that he was being ridiculous. That there was a difference between some risk and blatant suicide. Gary's sense of self-preservation had always been one of the factors that limited his fun, but he usually had a point.

O'Malley frowned before tipping a third of the pills back into the box. He wouldn't get to find Doc again if he was dead. And while dying might be interesting, he had other things to do. 

He placed the juice box to the side before gazing at the small pile of pills in his hand. After a few moments of contemplation, he shoved them in his mouth. Then he settled against the wall, waiting for the next guard who would pass by.

It took longer than anticipated. O'Malley waited. He waited a little longer. Or a lot longer. It was hard to tell. A guard still hadn't appeared by the time he started to get dizzy, by the time pain started to curl around his abdomen.

He should probably speed things up. Picking up his food tray, he started to bash it against the wall.

"O' mighty prophet? Why are you creating a racket?" the Red Zealot shouted from his cell.

"Does it matter? Just help me with it, you fool! Make noise!"

Pretty soon, the cells were filled with noise. It was like a chain reaction. O'Malley started it, the zealots followed him in making noise, and then the other inmates started yelling at them to shut up, thus causing even more noise. If a guard was approaching, O'Malley couldn't hear it over all the noise.

He really hoped they were hurrying up. He was starting to realise how bad of an idea this was. And also wondering what the hell was in the Zealot's medication. Things seemed… brighter. His hands looked more colourful, the skin being more vivid in tone than his usual paleness. He moved a lock of his hair in front of his face. The red was stunning. This was the reddest thing he'd ever seen. He flopped on his back to examine it some more.

As he did so, he noticed that his skin looked like it was bubbling. He touched the back of his hand, but felt nothing. Hallucination, then. Fascinating.

His abdomen was starting to hurt more, but it seemed a lesser concern.

The noise outside was dying down. And then there was the sound of his door being unlocked. O'Malley tilted his head back a little to stare at the person who'd unlocked it.

He knew this was an extension of the hallucination right away. Primarily because the person he was looking at was not an inmate nor a guard. They were also dead, which tended to impact one's chances for getting a job. O'Malley may have been out of it, but even that struck him as a little odd.

Perhaps it was just because he'd been thinking of Gary.

He supposed this was, at least, a fun hallucination.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, what's all the noise about?" York shouted.

"Bunch of idiots smashing their lunch trays against the wall!" one of the other inmates roared back. "Shut them up!"

York walked along the cells, and most of the inmates slowly quieted down. But there was still a large amount of tray smashing going on in a few of them. York decided that the quicker approach was probably smarter, and so he actually used the keys instead of picking the locks. He pushed open the door and quickly snatched the lunch tray away from the Red Zealot."What was the point of that?" York muttered, about to close the door again when the zealot spoke up.

"I don't know, gatekeeper. But our prophet ordered us to do it, and his word is law second only to that of His Holy Flappiness."

York frowned. "Prophet?"

"He whose hair is of the sacred colour."

York jammed a thumb in the direction of O'Malley's cell. "You mean O'Malley?"

"The prophet's given name is of no concern to us followers of the almighty cloth," the Red Zealot said after a few moments of pause. York left the zealot's cell, slamming the door shut, before locating the keys to O'Malley's one.

There was no thumping coming from his cell.

York shoved open the door to find O'Malley lying on the floor in a heap. He was awake. He looked normal at first glance, other than the odd choice of position, until York saw that his pupils were dilated and he was starting to flush like a burnt lobster. O'Malley seemed to perk up while looking at him.

“Gary?”

“You forget my name? You scar a guy's eye, you could at least have the decency to remember his—“ York cut off, noticing the torn juice box on the floor. Pills were scattered inside it and around it. “...oh, you didn't. You idiot. Wow, I don't know how Wash is going to handle this...”

He reached out to pull O'Malley to his feet. O'Malley looked around with confusion before squinting at York.

“You're dead,” he said.

“Can you not threaten me, please?” York tried to get him to walk, but O'Malley almost fell over immediately. York had to grab his arm to stop him. “You're lucky Wash isn't the one down here. Or South. They'd probably just leave you. I know I kind of want to.”

O'Malley laughed—a weirdly non-malicious laugh—before slinging his arm over York's shoulders. “Who's there?”

“Alright. Weird.” York shrugged. “Let's go, you fucked up son of a bitch.”

 

* * *

 

"Omega. Knock knock."

“Who's there?”

“Sid.”

“Sid who?”

“Sid down and have a cup of tea. Ha ha.”

O'Malley laughed again and added, “You've gotten worse. A side effect of being dead, I suppose.” After a pause, he added, “I think you got shorter. You feel shorter.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, now you're just being rude,” York muttered.

“Wyoming would like that joke, I think,” O'Malley continued. His voice was slurring significantly. “He's in here, did you know? Said he knew you.”

“I'm sure he does,” York said absently.

“He said your jokes were good. I told him he had no sense of humor.”

“Again with the rudeness.”

 

* * *

 

Of all the things Wash was expecting to see today, York walking in with O'Malley's arm around his shoulders was very low on that list. Wash stared at the sight for a moment. Donut, meanwhile, had gone very pale and looked on the verge of trying to get up again.

“...What.”

“There was a lot of pills on his floor, and I'm pretty sure some of them didn't belong to him. And he's off his head. Like, off his head more than normal. I mean, look at this.” York gestured at O'Malley. “He's high as balls, Wash.”

O'Malley grinned at him and wiggled his fingers in a mocking, almost playful wave.

“...Well, I don't know how to treat that,” Wash said. “I suppose we'll just have to leave him on a cot and see if he dies from the overdose. Very sad.”

“Can you believe he's still not over it?” O'Malley complained loudly at York. “Some people just can't let things go.” He tilted his head and looked at Wash, then said, “Well, I suppose you're more plausible.”

“What is he talking about?”

York shrugged. “Hell if I know. I heard one half of a knock knock joke and he called me 'Gary' when I opened his cell.”

“Whatever. Just leave him there.”

“We should probably do something. Yeah, it's O'Malley, but an inspection's coming up and if we've got another body to explain—“

“You always say that. No-one'll care if it's O'Malley,” Wash said. Still, he peered at O'Malley with mild interest. O'Malley started shifting a little, his face getting more flushed. A pained expression crossed his face as he pressed one hand to his stomach.

Definitely something wrong. Wash knew a fair amount about meds. About the things they could do wrong. And that was just the controlled tests when the doctors were trying to find a way to treat him. O'Malley taking a bunch of things that probably belonged to other inmates? Recipe for disaster.

But he seemed very talkative. And opportunities like this didn't come around all that often.

“Actually, I might have something I can try,” Wash said slowly. “But it'll be unpleasant. You've got other things you need to do, don't you? Maybe you should go back to it.”

“You're going to hit him, aren't you?”

“Why would you think—“

“Because that's your answer to everything!”

“Not everything. Look, I'm not going to hit him. Just… I would like for you to go. So I can… work.”

York looked between Wash and O'Malley, who was currently hypnotised by Doc's old cat poster. Then he shrugged and shifted O'Malley's arm off him, pushing him over to the other cot. “Alright. I better clean up his cell, anyway. Don't want anyone else eating the pills he left all over the floor.”

“Fine.”

Donut looked like he was going to have a heart attack, his eyes flickering between both Wash and O'Malley before shooting York a pleading look. York, however, didn't notice. He just gave Wash and O'Malley one more look before leaving.

 

* * *

 

O'Malley was rather put out to see 'Gary' leave. Washington was nowhere near as fun, and O'Malley was also less sure that Washington was really here. He seemed muffled somehow. Duller than his surroundings, like he was dissolving into them. The only parts of him that seemed bright were the bits of grey in his hair, which like everything else had gotten brighter, a blinding silver. When he spoke, it was like hearing loud music from a distance.

The pain in his abdomen seemed to be rising, curling its way upwards. Things moved out of the corners of his eyes, but when he turned they rarely continued moving. He could swear the cat in Doc's old poster was about to leap off the wall.

And then his eyes moved over to the figure on the cot. The first thing he noticed was that this figure was largely covered in a vivid purple blanket. The colour that he most associated with Doc, blown to several times its usual vibrancy. So it was no small wonder, with Doc pushed so far into his mind, what he saw when he looked at the figure dwarfed by that amount of colour.

Seeing Doc on that cot was more plausible than Gary being alive and escorting him about the prison, but less so than meeting Wash here. After all, if Doc had returned to the prison he wouldn't be lying on a cot. He'd be where Wash was.

But that didn't matter to O'Malley. A hallucination of Doc was better than no Doc at all.

And oh, he was vivid.

 

* * *

 

Wash waited for York's footsteps to recede before dragging his chair over to O'Malley, who was now staring at Donut. Donut looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Wash sat down, leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees.

“Can you hear me? Hey.” Wash snapped his fingers close to O'Malley's ear. “Are you listening?”

O'Malley waved Wash's hand away. “Not so loud...”

“Who do you think you're talking to?”

O'Malley ignored him. Wash snapped his fingers near O'Malley's ear again.

“Pay attention!”

O'Malley looked back at Wash, although his eyes periodically flickered towards Donut.

“Better.” Wash leaned even further forward, staring O'Malley in the eyes. “Delta. Theta. Gamma. The Alpha.”

O'Malley clucked his tongue. “Oh, this again.”

“Yes, this again. Where are they?”

He shrugged. “Delta and Theta? Who knows.” He frowned. “Not Delta's biggest fan.”

That was more information than he normally got out of O'Malley. When he'd tried asking in the past—usually with threats of violence—O'Malley hadn't even said that much. Just grinned at him and said 'wouldn't you like to know?'

“Gamma?”

“Gary? Dead.” O'Malley leaned forward. “That's how I know this isn't real.”

Wash stood up and paced the room for a moment. Then he swung his foot into the wall. Donut let out a little yelp and flinched back. One more chance at closure lost. But Gamma wasn't as important. Gamma's business was with words, and Wash had come to terms with those words a long time ago. Still, the fact that he, too, had died without Wash ever finding him... that was a bitter pill to swallow.

Nonetheless, Wash choked it down before returning to his seat. He could think about that later.

“And the Alpha? Where's the Alpha?”

O'Malley tilted his head. He stared Wash in the face for a few minutes. Then he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that it seemed like his stomach was about to explode.

Wash punched him in the stomach. Donut let out a little squeak, but muffled himself before anything else can come out. O'Malley's eyes bulged and he let out a choked noise as his laughter cut off, curling up and trying to shield himself.

“You think anything's stopping me from killing you? There's a lot of things in here that could kill you, and I could always claim it was part of the overdose.”

O'Malley stayed curled up, and his grin was strained, but it was still present. “Oh, I'm well aware. In fact, I'm fairly certain the only thing protecting me is that I'm the only one who can tell you what you want to know. Isn't that right?” He lowered his voice, and in the process it became even harder to tell what he was saying through all the slurring. He seemed to progressively be losing control over his mouth as he talked. “I'm only half-sure I'm even talking to you, but even in a dream I'm not dumb enough to tell you that. Oh, but if you knew... oh, I'm almost tempted to tell you, just to see the look on your face.”

Donut was now just watching silently, looking like he was working himself up to saying something. Wash looked over at him and put a finger over his lips before miming cutting a throat. Donut got the implications and looked down again. Wash watched Donut for a while longer before looking back at O'Malley. O'Malley was staring at Donut again, apparently considering Wash beneath his notice despite the threats.

He knew he was safe. He was right. Wash hated that he was right.

He supposed he should call a hospital. Maybe he should have asked to borrow York's phone. Wash didn't have one. He only ever talked to York, so there had seemed little point to having one. Usually, there was a phone in the infirmary. But this temporary room didn't have a phone.

Wash looked at Donut again. Then at O'Malley. Then at Donut.

“I need to call the hospital,” he said. “It should only take a few minutes.”

“Wait—“ Donut started.

“Behave while I'm gone.”

“You're leaving me alone with him?! No, come on, please, anything but that!” Donut begged. “You can't be... come on, Wash, you can't—“

Wash regarded Donut calmly. “Then is there anything you want to tell me?”

“I don't have an answer! I told you, it was luck!”

“Well... that's a pity.” Wash turned around and left.

"No, come on, don't... please?!"

Wash quickly glanced around the room to make sure he hadn't left out anything sharp before leaving. Once he was outside the infirmary, Wash set off at a run. He didn't want to leave O'Malley in there with Donut too long. Just enough to scare him.

 

* * *

 

O'Malley watched Wash leave with mild if pleased confusion. He didn't know why Wash would leave Doc(?) alone with him, but he couldn't say he was upset about it. Quite the contrary. O'Malley grinned before attempting to climb to his feet. The world swirled as he did so, and he had to grab the wall to stop himself from immediately toppling.

“Stay back,” Doc said. Shaky. Afraid. Good. He should be.

“How rude. And after I missed you so much,” O'Malley said. His tongue felt too big and thick inside his mouth, and making words was becoming something of a chore. He leaned against the wall, internally demanding that the room stop spinning for a moment. Just long enough for him to reach that other cot.

 

* * *

 

O'Malley was having trouble, but he was still walking faster than Donut could. He was sliding along the wall slowly, getting closer and closer, and the grin on his face... oh, that was not a good grin.

“Why'd you take so long?”

“I don't... what? Take so long doing what? Look, I'm warning you, you stay on your side or the room or... or...” Or what? What could Donut even do?

 

* * *

 

The words that were coming out of Doc's mouth sounded... muddled. Less clear than Gary had been. Perhaps whatever he'd taken was getting to him. He heard one word. Warning.

“You're... warning me? Me? How... uncharacteristically brave of you.”

Doc said something else. It was too muffled. But it all sounded very serious.

“Oh, well that tone just makes me reconsider completely,” O'Malley said sarcastically.

He took another step forward, but the floor wasn't where he tried to put his foot down and he stumbled headfirst into the wall. Barely stopped himself from falling over. He giggled weakly before gesturing at himself.

“Look at what you did to me, Doc!”

 

* * *

 

That was half-gibberish and Donut could barely make out a word. It came out sounding like the ravings of a madman. Which Donut supposed is what it really was. Crumpled against the wall like he was, for one second O'Malley didn't look all that threatening. Then Donut remember who he was looking at.

O'Malley kept ranting, and most of it was declining further into incoherency. Donut could make out words here and there. 'Left,' 'upset' and 'Doc.' Doc?

“Did you say Doc? ...Wait, who do you think I am?”

O'Malley answered him, but he was mumbling now. Still, whatever O'Malley had said, whatever Donut had said... or whatever he thought Donut was saying... it was enough to motivate him into shuffling, step by step, towards Donut.

 

* * *

 

"You deserve to be punished for what you did. Even though you came back before I was forced to come and find you. You deserve it, Doc. You're not allowed to leave. Ever.”

With that, O'Malley jumped forward. Although he lost his balance at the same time, it didn't matter. He managed to propel himself onto the cot, swinging one leg over and straddling Doc. The immediate reaction to this was a short scream before O'Malley clasped a hand over his mouth.

"Shush. No shouting. Or it'll just be worse for you."

And then Doc swung a fist at him. Doc tried to punch him. O'Malley uncovered his mouth, but only so he could grab both of Doc's wrists, pin them to the cot.

"Violence? Not like you.”

 

* * *

 

Donut's scream hadn't just been out of fear. O'Malley was sitting on him where it hurt the most, where he was still covered in scars and bandages. The pressure suddenly put on the area caused searing pain to rush through him, and it didn't stop.

O'Malley covered his mouth before he could make much noise. "Shusshhhh," O'Malley slurred.

Donut swung his fists at O'Malley, but he didn't manage to do any damage before his wrists were pinned to the cot. And the searing pain made it so hard to concentrate. It was so bad that sweat had started pouring down his face.

"Violets?" O'Malley muttered. "Not lieee... like…"

“Get off me, you crazy basta—aaahh!” He cut off, the pain caused by O'Malley sitting on top of him was interfering with his ability to breathe, and by extension affecting his ability to scream. All that came out when he tried was an indignant squeak.

O'Malley grinned down at him. "Nooo. Bad. Bad Doc."

Can't... breathe…

O'Malley still had a tight grip on his wrists, had them pressed into the cot. Donut tried protesting again, all that came out this time was a raspy noise.

 

* * *

 

O'Malley felt bandages under his hands, but he couldn't see them. His sight didn't line up with what he felt. He didn't care.

To make his badly slurred point, O'Malley rocked slightly, tearing a short squeak of pain out. "I own you. You are mine, don't you get that? You belong to me."

"Get off," Doc choked out. These words were clearer. That sounded like Doc.

"Not until you've been punished." O'Malley pressed himself against Doc, lips brushing his ear. "Not until I've had my fun."

He felt Doc squirm. Trying to pull his arms free so he could defend himself. He was being unusually... difficult. Perhaps his brief freedom had given him ideas. O'Malley would just have to knock those ideas out of him.

Struggling was one thing. O'Malley found that rather arousing. But this level of struggle—of violence, and right after running off? This was not something O'Malley wanted to encourage. He didn't want Doc to think this was allowed. That he could do this again with no consequence.

But still, having Doc underneath him again... That felt good. Really good. O'Malley actually felt happy. He did want to punish Doc... but for now, he just wanted to enjoy the euphoria. Just wanted to enjoy Doc.

 

* * *

 

It had not taken Wash long to find a phone and call the hospital. Within a few minutes he was heading back again. When he approached the infirmary, however, he heard noises. Nothing particularly coherent. Mostly whines and slurred mumbling.

Wash put his hand against the door and pushed it open as quietly as possible. He'd always been good at appearing in rooms without making a sound, as well as disappearing just as quickly. One of his talents. But he didn't enter the room. Just opened the door.

He saw Donut with his arms pinned. O'Malley was sitting on top of him, leaning lopsidedly. Grinning and mumbling incoherently. O'Malley was too focused on Donut to notice Wash opening the door, and Donut was too focused on trying not to die.

Wash could stop it. But O'Malley looked on the verge of passing out. Donut might not have been that mobile, but he beat the Meta. A drugged up O'Malley should have been a breeze, even with that limited movement. Sure, he had no use of his legs... but he wasn't even tied down. He could manage it. Wash wanted to see him deal with it himself. Maybe then he'd be able to see a glimpse how Donut kept managing to survive.

So Wash just stood there and watched.

But nothing happened. O'Malley mumbled and slurred, and Donut wheezed and thrashed around.

This couldn't be all Donut could do. Was he so set on keeping up this facade of being harmless? ...Or was this really how Donut was?

Wash didn't want to believe that. But if he couldn't repel O'Malley when the psycho was drugged up to the point of being unable to speak... Maybe it really was just luck.

Maybe...

No, no, no. It couldn't be. He was faking. He had to be. ...But what if he wasn't?

Wash's thoughts were interrupted by York's voice, and Wash quickly closed the door before York could see what was happening.

“Yeah, I didn't know what to do with these pills? Is there, like, a special disposal system for these, like with needles? I'd hate for an inmate to somehow eat them out of the trash.”

“Oh. Uh. You can just throw them away with the rest of the trash.”

“That makes sense.” York stared at Wash, then at how Wash's hand was resting on the door knob. Three seconds of silence passed. “Wait. Why are you out here?”

“Uh. I was... uh...”

“...Did you leave them in there? Alone? You left Donut with O'Malley?!” York whispered, looking horrified. “Are you insane?”

"I'm completely and totally sane! I was just... I was just...” Wash was starting to realise that he had no reasonable explanation for what he'd done. Nothing he could tell York, anyway. “It's under control!”

“How is it under control?!”

As if on cue, before their whispered argument could get any further, there was a loud, horrible shriek of pain from the infirmary.

"Oh god, what've you done?" York groaned.

“I had it under control!” Wash insisted before shoving the door open.

 

* * *

 

He was helpless. He knew this would happen. He didn't think it would happen so soon, but he knew being stuck here would lead to nothing good. It had been why he'd taken the shiv, only he didn't have the shiv any more, did he? That was hidden under his mattress in his cell, where it couldn't do any good.

Why did this keep happening? Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

Squirming didn't do shit. But it was all Donut could manage. It was so difficult to breathe and his arms were pinned. He stopped trying to punch O'Malley because it was all he could do to keep air going in and out of his lungs.

O'Malley was too close. He couldn't have been closer. Donut could feel his breath tickling him. And then O'Malley nuzzled closer. He felt teeth. O'Malley licked the shell of his ear very slowly.

Donut let out as much of a protest as he could. By now, it was just wheezing. He couldn't breathe in. He almost didn't want to. He almost wanted to pass out so he wouldn't have to experience what O'Malley was clearly working up to. So he could pretend it wasn't real. But he was still awake.

He felt O'Malley shift, causing a new wave of pain. He felt teeth scrape his neck. It was not as rough as Donut would have expected. In fact, it was actually kind of tender. If anything, that was scarier.

O'Malley moved up a bit, stared Donut right in the face. His expression was impossible to read. He said something, and it sounded like something that was important to O'Malley. Then O'Malley moved forward again, pressing his mouth against Donut's. At the same time, he shifted, grinding his hips against Donut. He felt something hard rubbing against him.

There was one frozen moment. One frozen moment where everything stopped. And Donut, in that frozen moment, thought of all the other times O'Malley had attacked him. All the other times other people, like Miller or even Caboose, had attacked him. He thought about his fears, coming in. Fears about being taken and used. About how close, in this moment, those fears were to becoming a reality.

He was sick of this. Of going in and out of the infirmary like there was a revolving door attached. Of not even being safe while he was there. He was sick of being the victim.

Fuck this.

And so Donut did the one thing he could to fight back. He bit O'Malley's tongue. Hard.

There was three seconds of thrashing. Donut had no clue what was happening, but his instincts just screamed at him to keep his jaws clamped shut. Three seconds of struggle. Three seconds of his mouth filling up with blood. Until O'Malley managed to pull away. And there was an inhumane scream.

The first thing Donut noticed was that his mouth had more than just O'Malley's blood in it. There was something in his mouth, a chunk of something thick and slimy. The second was that O'Malley had let go of his wrists. So Donut raised his bad arm and swung his arm squarely into O'Malley's throat. It hurt and it wasn't as hard as he wanted it to be, but between the pain and drugs O'Malley had no ability to resist it, and he went toppling off the cot.

It was hard to breathe with a mouthful of blood, so Donut spat it out onto the infirmary floor. He vaguely noticed the door being shoved open, but he was more focused on sucking in huge breaths of air, despite the pain that still seared through his chest. And he was afraid and he really wanted a shower and he wanted to throw up, thinking of the texture of part of O'Malley's tongue floating about in his mouth like a piece of pineapple in a cocktail.

But the adrenaline was pumping through him. So even over all that, over the disgust and fear, he felt exhilarated.

 

* * *

 

When O'Malley felt those teeth chomp on his tongue... and when he pulled away, probably leaving a chunk of it behind, the fogginess that had been going through his head since he overdosed went away for one horrible second.

There was no way of denying the truth in that moment. Doc wasn't there. Doc would never, ever do that to him. And he was screaming from the pain, of course he was, but he was also screaming because his favourite toy had been taken away from him again. The haze was only lifted for a second. After that second of mind-clearing pain, the fogginess returned. But O'Malley knew now, in a way that couldn't be denied, that Doc wasn't really sitting there.

“You little fucker!” he shrieked, spitting his words through blood. “I'll tear your fucking throat out, you... you... you facsimile!” He dived at the cot again, but this time someone grabbed him, pulling him back by his arms as he thrashed.

He heard words behind him. Was Gary holding him back? Of course he wasn't, because Gary was dead, dead, dead and he couldn't pretend that it was really him, even if his mind tried to tell him it was. He couldn't believe in an illusion that involved Doc biting parts of his tongue off.

“O'Malley.”

“Go away.”

“Knock knock.”

“I said go away, Gary!”

 

* * *

 

O'Malley thrashed and shrieked and spat blood and continued to fail at making sense, but now York was here and York was holding him back, looking pale and disturbed. Donut breathed in and out, staring at him, and the exhilaration started to fade.

Donut had just bit a man's tongue in two.

“I need a bucket,” Donut whimpered.

“How do we bandage that?” York asked uncertainly. There was an edge of panic in his voice, and he stared at Wash rather intensely. “How do you bandage that?!”

“I don't know. Wad up a cloth and shove it in his mouth? Ambulance should be here soon, anyway.”

“Fuck... fuck!” York seemed lost for any other words. He just tried to keep O'Malley locked down.

Wash was looking at the blood that Donut had spat on the floor. He stared at it, then looked at Donut. He was wearing a small, strangely smug smile on his face.

Donut's expression faded from nauseous into anger. He spat again, and this time he tried to aim it near Wash's feet. Then he wiped his mouth, looking at the traces of red it left on his hand.

“That what you wanted?” he said bitterly.

Wash didn't say anything. He took a step towards Donut, but stopped when York snapped at him.

“Leave the kid alone, Wash! For fuck's sake!”

Wash looked over at York, before looking back at Donut. Then he turned around and made his way back to his usual seat. Donut didn't stop glaring at him, even when he looked away.

 

* * *

 

People came. They took O'Malley away, and they gave Donut spooked looks once they got a brief recap of what had happened to O'Malley's tongue. Once they left, the infirmary was entirely silent.

York had taken up a position nearby, and was looking between Donut and Wash. Donut had wrapped himself tighter in the purple blanket, and was still glaring at Wash. York really couldn't blame him. He thought Donut looked a little scary right now. It was hard to look at a guy who still had blood speckling his face. The paramedics had taken the chunk of O'Malley's tongue lying on the floor with them. But the blood was still there.

Still, for all that York thought Donut looked a little terrifying, that was nothing to how angry—and afraid—he was of Wash right now. And Wash was just sitting there like nothing happened.

"Don't you have some kind of work to do?" Wash eventually said.

"I think I'm needed here more than out there," York said frostily.

"I've got it covered."

"Oh, you've got it covered, have you?" York gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "Really. Somehow, I doubt it."

"What is your problem?"

"Seriously? You have to ask?" York sat there for a moment longer before climbing off his seat. He approached Donut, who stopped glaring at Wash to look at him. The glare went from angry to just... wary. “Donut? You want him gone? I can't help you if you get injured, but—“

“I want him gone,” Donut immediately said.

“Thought so.” York glared at Wash. “Leave. You take over my shift. I'll take care of things here.”

“You don't even know how to do stitches.”

“I don't give a shit! Out! Now!” When Wash didn't move, York reached forward and grabbed his wrist, yanking him towards the door. He felt a small surge of guilt when he did so—he knew Wash had problems with people touching him—but it was hard to feel real sympathy right now, and if Wash was going to be like this then it had to be done.

York pulled Wash out of the room. Wash's expression had gotten cloudy when York grabbed his arm, but he hadn't otherwise responded. Once they were outside the infirmary, York let go of his wrist.

“What. The fuck. Is wrong with you?!”

“Look, I... I had things under control. If he'd gone too far, I would have stopped it.”

“It did go too far! You let O'Malley shove his tongue down Donut's throat—“

“What? No! No, I didn't even—he did that?”

York almost punched Wash right then. “Are you serious? How do you think O'Malley got close enough to get his tongue bitten off?! What do you think his intentions were, Wash?”

Wash frowned at the floor, before looking back at York.

“That doesn't mesh with my experience with him.”

“This is a prison, Wash! And O'Malley gets off on people being afraid of him! How could you not see it coming? You are normally so very good at assuming the worst!” York took a few aggressive steps towards Wash, causing him to back up. “Fine, let's say you didn't see that. Let's say you had. That I hadn't turned up and you'd kept on watching. How far would have been too far, Wash? Would that be when he was bleeding? When O'Malley was bending him over the cot? Were you going to wait until Donut had gotten one of his eyes damaged, too?”

Wash flinched like he'd been slapped in the face.

“I never meant for that to happen,” he said to the floor. York let out an irritated sigh.

“Alright. I know. But you did mean it, this time. You meant for Donut to get hurt. And it doesn't even make sense!”

“If you say he's harmless one more time—“

“That's not what I meant! Why did you even try to save him, then? When I found him in the laundry closet? You couldn't work hard enough then. What, do you just want to keep him on the edge of death? Why?!”

“No, I… it's complicated. You wouldn't understand.”

“You know what? I don't fucking need to.” York held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

“I'm not giving you the keys. You know even less about being a doctor than I do.”

“Well, apparently you missed 'Doctoring 101: don't lock your patients in a room unsupervised with a fucking rapist!' Fine, I'll pick the lock. But you stay the hell out of there.”

York turned around, walked back to the infirmary door. When he had his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to Wash. Wash just stared back. York's expression faded from anger into just… disappointment.

"I think... I think I'm going to take a rain check on drinking for a while,” he muttered, before heading back into the infirmary. He didn't look back as he slammed the door on Wash, although he thought he might have caught a glimpse of Wash's mouth moving like he was going to say something.

Donut was watching him. York took Wash's old chair and pulled it towards Donut, before searching the supplies nearby. He found a bottle of water Wash had left there and a rag of some kind, and poured a little bit of water onto the rag.

“Can you clean your face by yourself?” York asked quietly.

“My face?” Donut touched his face, and smudged some of the blood on it. “...Oh.”

“I can get it quicker for you, but I get if you don't want anyone touching you right now.”

Donut regarded York warily, but after a moment he tried smiling. It didn't look real. It was obviously an attempt to be friendly for York's sake.

“It's fine. You're... not him.”

York didn't know if 'him' meant O'Malley or Wash. He supposed it didn't matter. He sat down in front of Donut and started using the wet rag to wipe the blood off Donut's face. Donut tensed up initially, but slowly relaxed as it went on.

“...I'm sorry about this, by the way."

"It's not your fault."

"Isn't it? I knew he was probably going to do something. Still, I didn't think he'd do that... or rather let that happen." York sighed, wiping the rag along Donut's jaw, where the blood splatters were heaviest. “You ever get that thing where you think you know someone, and then something happens and you realise you really don't know them at all?”

Donut let out a noise that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so void of happiness. “Lately? I'm starting to think that about most everyone I know. I'm not sure I even know myself any more.”


	13. Flashback Six - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth flashback out of eight, continuing the story of how the main six inmates ended up in prison. This part only contains Church's story.
> 
> Five years after being made 'the Alpha,' Church meets Tex at Club Errera. And what was supposed to be a regular job goes horribly wrong.

**Church**

 

"This is stupid."

"It's not stupid, Leonard."

"No, it is. It's the stupidest plan ever. Why the fuck are we going to a nightclub?"

"Why not? Club Errera is very fashionable."

"I could be sleeping. We've got shit on tomorrow.”

“You don't have to stay out too late.”

“I don't want to leave Eddie by himself for too long."

"Eddie's sixteen, Leonard. He'll be fine."

“Also you need to stop calling me Leonard. It's weird. Who the hell calls me that?”

Church was attempting to go back to the car, while Sigma dragged him towards the club with an iron grip. He didn't look strong, but he had fingers of steel.

"Besides, I hate nightclubs."

"Have you ever been to a nightclub?"

"So what if I haven't? I haven't had anyone stick one of those clampy electric things to my balls, either. Don't have to experience it to know it's fucking painful." Church scowled at the bright sign. "Why are we here, seriously?"

"For fun?"

"No such thing. This is balls. Couldn't you bring Delta?"

"Dee refused. He doesn't like intoxicants. Theta doesn't drink. I tried with Omega once but I'm fairly certain he kidnapped one of the girls he chatted up there. Gamma always sneaks off and leaves me with the tabs of five other strangers. Meta finds the combination of lights and noise irritating. Epsilon is too young.” Sigma stopped dragging Church for a moment. "I'll let you put all your drinks on my tab."

Church considered this. "...All of them?"

"Every last drop."

"...Deal."

Despite the promise of free liquor, Church still tried to slip out multiple times. This included one attempt at climbing out the bathroom window. Sigma caught him each time and quickly started dragging him around with his steel grip again. So Church reluctantly followed him around, clinging onto a glass of whiskey that tasted like paint thinner and only prevented from falling asleep from boredom by the music, which was so loud Church swore it was making the empty chairs nearby bleed.

Pity. Church could have used a nap. He wasn't getting enough sleep lately. Granted, he didn't have to take care of Eddie constantly, since he was now old enough to at least cook on his own. Actually, he was a much better cook than Church, who had a tendency to burn everything. But he still didn't like to leave Eddie at home by himself.

No, the lack of sleep was because lately he was so busy with work. Turns out that this whole 'running a criminal syndicate' deal could be long hours. Church didn't mind it that much. He didn't have to shoot people much nowadays. Mostly he told other people to. His job was coordination and knowing shit (mostly shit Delta had told him, admittedly) and being an asshole enough to be a believable tough criminal but not so rough that no-one trusted him to keep his end of the deal.

He knew that was putting his face out there far too much, but who was going to tell the cops? The criminals that were helping him? And Delta knew good sources. Knew where to find reliable people. Still not reliable enough to replace him, apparently. But that was okay. He'd gotten used to this. Besides, criminal shit was now his only skill set and he couldn't put that on a resume. Finding a legitimate job would be too difficult.

So he told himself, at least.

He didn't feel like he'd been strong-armed into this life any more. Delta had relented enough long ago to let Church and Eddie move out of his house. On the plus side, that meant they were no longer cramped in the same living space as Delta, Theta and Sigma. On the other hand, it meant Eddie was left at home by himself a lot, and Church still half-expected the police from back home to kick the door down.

"You're rather uptight. Is something wrong? Would a drink or a lady help? Or a man, if that's what you're into?"

"Fuck off, Sigma."

"Don't be like that." Sigma looked around briefly before his gaze settled on two women sitting nearby, one red-haired and one blonde, having what looked like a rather heated discussion. Sigma smiled slightly and gestured. "What about the blonde woman? She looks your type. Hot-headed and muscular."

“Who told you—I mean, I don't have a fetish, shut up. Also, really? You look around this whole room and pick the two who look like they're about to tear out each other's throats?”

“Why not?”

“Hey, wait, no, don't drag me over—“

Ignoring Church's protesting, Sigma dragged Church over to the two arguing. The redhead noticed them first. For a moment, there was this weird alarm bell ringing in the back of Church's head, amplified by the fact that the redhead looked startled at the sight of them. But Sigma interrupted before he could think more on it.

“Hello,” Sigma said brusquely, addressing the blonde woman. “Have you met my friend?” He pushed Church into the chair next to her before addressing the redhead. “I'd like a word.” And without another word, he practically scooped the redhead out of her chair and carted her off.

The whole process had taken about three seconds. Church and the blonde woman were left there, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"What the fuck?" Church muttered. The blonde woman shrugged before taking a long swig of beer.

"Not a clue. I think your friend just kidnapped my sister. I'm not sure."

"Uh..." Confronted rather abruptly with a strange woman—Church's interactions with women were limited to the occasional criminal who Delta hired and never on a personal basis—he was left feeling rather awkward. “Sorry. I can go get her back.”

The blonde waved her hand dismissively. “She can take care of herself. Besides, not like she was saying anything different.” She made a yakking motion with her hand. “Oh, Tex, why are you letting down the family business? Why won't Dad shut up about you? Why do you hog his attention without being there? Blah blah blah. Okay, I paraphrased, but that's what she meant. I'm only here because my brother-in-law wouldn't shut up with trying to get us to bond. Family issues, y'know?”

"Yeah, uh... totally know." Church looked down at his sub-par whiskey before looking up at the woman. “So... Tex? That's you?”

“Mmhm.” Tex gestured at Church's whiskey. “That any good?”

“It tastes like paint thinner.”

"Hm. Screw it, then. Beer is good." Tex tapped her chin and grinned evilly. "Although... there's a drink they serve here. Not sure what the ingredients are, they just call it an Errera Special. Glows just like the neon sign, will knock you out within three seconds... if you're not woman enough for it."

Church raised an eyebrow. "You challenging me?"

"First to tap out, pass out or vomit loses."

"You're on. I'll stick it on my friend's tab." Sigma was probably not going to approve of Church abusing his alcohol privileges, but fuck it. He'd know not to bring Church next time. "So, to the bar?"

“Fuck yeah. Time to flood out that last conversation.”

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Carolina whispered, barely audible underneath the music.

“You said you wanted to talk.”

“I wanted to talk at a set location! Not... here!”

“I know. But I also know any location you picked could be surrounded. But here? In front of your sister and your husband? I'm sure we're quite alone.”

“How did you even know I'd be here?”

“That's something for me to know and you to speculate about.” Sigma waved his hand and added, “Besides, I thought my friend could use the break, and I'm sure he'll like your sister.”

“He better not be one of your weird organ-carving friends. Not that it'll matter to her, but—”

“Not at all. He's very level-headed.” At Carolina's glare getting more scathing, Sigma sighed and added, “How long until York notices?”

“York's at the bar. He'll take anywhere from a few minutes to half an hour.” Carolina nodded her head towards the crowded bar. York was hidden from view, somewhere among the masses. He always complained that the bartender would ignore him until there were no pretty women trying to order, and that he'd be able to get drinks much faster if they went to a gay bar. “So if you must pick this place, I'd rather get it over with.”

"Then please, sit."

They both sat down at a booth far from the table Carolina had been previously at. Sigma settled back on his chair and smiled politely.

“So. What did you want to talk about?”

Carolina crossed her arms and leaned back on her seat. “It's not you I want to talk to. I just know you're the only one I can go to. And quite frankly, I suspect you know that already. So here's the facts.” She leaned forward and jammed her finger on the table. “You have one last chance to surrender. If you don't, then the next time we meet will be a bloodbath.”

“Ah. I must decline.”

“Don't be stupid, Sigma. You think I can't find you? You think everyone who works for you can be trusted? Give up now, and we can end this without death.”

“It's touching that you care.”

“It's not you I'm worried about.”

Sigma let out a little sigh. “Of course. Maine. You still think he wants to talk to you?”

“I know whose fault it is that he doesn't.”

“Really?” Sigma laced his fingers on the table. “Funny. I didn't think I was the one who led him into the job that ruined his throat. I didn't think I was the one who kept putting off learning sign language because obviously there would be time for that later, there was work to be done, because what is a friend's loneliness compared to your work? I wasn't the one who started looking for other partners.”

“That was for one job, Sigma! You know it was! I needed verbal communication on that job!” Carolina snapped.

“And the other parts?”

Carolina didn't say anything, although she looked a moment from diving across the table and wrapping her hands around Sigma's throat. Her face went bright red and she opened and closed her hands for a moment before lacing them together, mirroring Sigma's posture.

“So I made some mistakes. Don't treat me like you're some... paragon of honorable criminal behavior.”

“I do what I have to.”

“Really? I suppose you just had to tell me where Delta's dad was hiding out, then. Tell me, does Delta know?”

Sigma's eyes flickered to the side for a moment. “...I think he suspects, sometimes.”

“And you're not dead?”

“Delta admired his father, but he didn't love him. If Theta had been the one to die, perhaps things would be different. He knows he needs me.”

“Just like how Maine thinks he needs you?”

Sigma ignored that. “Funny. You accuse me of being worse, but I distinctly recall that you were the one who killed the man in question. And yet the blame is squarely on my shoulders.”

“Because it was my job! I'm on one side, and he—and you—were on the other. You betrayed your side.”

“I have the capacity to be loyal, Carolina. I just don't exercise that capacity on anyone who doesn't deserve it," Sigma said calmly. "And Delta deserves it more than his father did."

"Meaning he actually listens to you? Allowing you to..." Carolina dangled her fingers in the air, miming as if she was controlling a puppet.

Sigma didn't answer. He just looked upwards at the ceiling and stayed silent.

Carolina's frowned deepened. "This really is the last chance. You walk away from this and you're signing your own death warrant. No. More. Games. You've been a thorn in the Director's side for too long."

Sigma raised an eyebrow but still didn't reply. A minute of silence passed by before he climbed to his feet.

"If that's all you had to say... then I think I'll take my leave. Before your husband comes back and thinks the worst."

"York wouldn't think—"

"Wouldn't think what, Carolina? There's nothing bad for him to assume... but then again, who could tell? Given that you spend most of your life lying to him, maybe he'd mistake the momentary truthfulness for a lying disposition?"

Carolina only had time to splutter and yell, "Screw you!" By that time, Sigma had already disappeared amongst the other club patrons. Carolina sighed and rubbed her forehead. She took a glance at the bar and saw that Sigma had left just in time. York had finally managed to purchase some drinks and was making his way over, occasionally pausing to dance cheerfully to the music while somehow not spilling alcohol all over himself.

"Errera Special for you," he said once he reached her. "Made them put a little umbrella in. My way of showing that I care. And part of my making a couple of extra demands to the bartender as punishment for keeping me waiting for so long. But mostly the caring thing. Here you go." He passed it to her.

"Thanks, York."

"You look upset. Something wrong? Too noisy? They do blast the music loud, don't they?"

"No, I just... I have a lot of work due tomorrow, I suppose I was stuck thinking about it."

Technically she wasn't lying. But she wasn't telling York the whole truth, either, and after Sigma's parting words the lie tasted bitter in her mouth.

“Ah, forget about it. Besides, I think Tex ditched us. I saw her chugging like five of those with some guy. Come on, bring the drink this way and we can dance. As I recall, you had some really kicking moves." York grinned widely and waved around his razzjito as he talked. "I remember seeing it the first time as if it were yesterday—"

Carolina smiled slightly, even as she said, "Ugh, don't start reminiscing out loud, that's for old men in rocking chairs."

"The point is it's dancing time. Come on."

"Alright. As I recall, you had some decent moves yourself. You still do that spinning step thing?"

Carolina pushed Sigma out of her mind for now. It didn't matter tonight. After tomorrow it wouldn't matter at all.

 

* * *

 

Church could only assume he'd lost the drinking game, because he couldn't remember anything past his third Errera Special the next morning. In the early hours of the morning, he got woken up by Eddie hammering on his door.

"We're out of eggs! All we have is stale toast! Can I go and get some food from the shops?"

Church groaned. It felt like little dwarves were attacking the inside of his head with hammers.

"Don't worry about it, I'll go grab some—aaaagh! Fuck!"

It had taken Church a few seconds to notice that, holy crap, there was a woman in his bed. ...That was different.

"What's up?"

"Nothing! You know what? You can go get food. But be back in the next fifteen minutes!" Church yelled through the door. Tex clasped a pillow over her ears and muttered for him to stop fucking shouting.

"Okay?" Church heard his footsteps plod away. A minute later, he heard the front door slam. Tex sat up, glancing around the room.

"Huh. I meant to sneak out before you woke up," she said. She didn't sound too disturbed. Mostly dismissive. "Well, my loss. But I don't think that shouting was necessary. I mean, seriously. You wake up next to me and your first words are 'aaaagh, fuck?' I hope you're not implying anything about my looks there."

"No. ...No, no, no. No." Church glanced at Tex then quickly looked away again. She was wearing her underwear still, but even that was a little awkward. "Uh... shit. I... what happened?"

"The details are a bit blurry. But you invited me here. Something about me having a, and I quote, 'slamming tushie.'"

"Bullshit. I would not use the word tushie."

“Anyway, I think we were gonna fuck? But you couldn't get it up and you were way drunker so I just kinda bundled you up and rolled you into bed. But I'd already gotten half-undressed and didn't want to pay for a taxi, so I just climbed in with.” Tex grinned a little. “So, surprise. You're still only around second base somewhere.”

“...Hurrah.” Church covered his face, both embarrassed and slightly relieved. He didn't object to the idea of sleeping with Tex, per se. But he'd like to remember his first time. “I'm just gonna try and forget this ever happened."

"That works. You got anything for headaches?"

"Yeah."

"By the way, you said your name was Leonard. That isn't what it says on your driver's licence. It says Ritchie Kerk on it."

"When the fuck did you even see my licence?" Church asked, lowering his hands and trying to suppress panic. 'Ritchie Kerk' had officially been an alias for a while, but he so rarely talked to anyone outside the business and so tended to forget that 'Leonard' wasn't his name any more.

"I may have gone through your wallet."

"You tried to rob me? Seriously?”

“You can't prove that. I didn't take anything, relax. Anyway. What's with the name?"

"Leonard... is my middle name. Seriously, would you want to be referred to as Ritchie?"

"I wouldn't want to be called a name that ends in 'nerd,' that's for sure."

“...Yeah, well. Shut up.”

Tex left about fifteen minutes later, passing Eddie on the way out. Eddie placed a bag of eggs, bread and, for some reason, paint (he'd picked up Sigma's artsy habits, though not to such a ridiculous extent) on the table, which Church was also resting his face on. Now sixteen years old, Eddie looked exactly like a miniature Church. Not to mention he'd developed some uncouth vocal patterns to match.

"You actually brought a girl home. I am fucking amazed," he said.

"Shut up. And don't swear."

"But... you swear."

"I'm older. I got the motherfucking right."

"Bullshit."

"Eddie!"

"What? Don't act like you're offended. What are you, my mother?"

"I might as well be!" Church paused, then added, "In a more, y'know, masculine way. Father figure. Not mother figure. Anyway, I have to do some work today. You stay in the house. Don't leave it. Seriously, don't. Almost had a heart attack last time."

"I just went out to get some snacks! There was a movie marathon on the television, and you wanted me not to eat popcorn and stuff during it?"

"Just... don't leave, alright?"

"You definitely got something up your butt," Eddie muttered.

"Hey! Do not."

"Maine said so."

"Maine speaks in growls, how can you even fucking tell?"

"Can I help with your work this time?"

"Not until Hell freezes over. Fuck it, even if Hell freezes over, you're still not helping."

"Oh, come on! I've got a codename and everything!"

"I don't fucking care, you're not coming with. You can go stay with Delta and watch him do computer shit, if you want. But you're not coming out into the streets.”

"But... you're always doing loads of stuff, and I never do anything useful.” Eddie scruffed his foot along the floor, frowning. “I'm a useless sack of shit in comparison."

"You're not a sack of horseshit. If anything, doing the kind of violent shit we do would turn you into a shitsack. And if we're caught doing all this... Look, just don't do it."

"Great. Don't do this, don't do that. That's all you ever fucking say, Leo." Eddie pulled a face at him. "You get angry and antsy over everything. You freak out when I leave the house without telling you, even if it's just getting groceries or something, for fuck's sake. What are you afraid of, honestly? You still scared the police from... from back home are gonna find us?"

"I'm a bit iffy about the police finding us at all. And if the police do catch us, I don't want you being implicated or anything. Plus, it's fucking dangerous out there!"

"So, what?"

"Look, I don't have time to fucking argue, alright? Just stay here."

Eddie scowled for a moment before muttering, "Fine." He sat at the table, arms crossed. "Guess if you're actually bringing another human being home, then it's a step towards getting less paranoid. Is she going to be back?"

"I dunno. We did trade numbers, but only as part of a bet. She thinks I look like the clingy type, and we bet that the other one would call first. So if I call her, I lose twenty dollars. If both of us keep going with the bet, then we'll never see each other again."

"That's kinda lame."

"Nah, it's great. If she wants the twenty bucks then she can't back out of a second date. It's fuckin' foolproof."

“Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“You're an idiot.”

 

* * *

 

“Alpha? Are you hungover?”

“Fuck off.”

“That's so irresponsible of you.”

“It's your fault!”

Sigma gave him a hard stare as he checked his handgun. “I didn't tell you to get drunk. I certainly didn't tell you to drink ten Errera Specials.”

Today wasn't meant to be a fight. It was meant to be negotiations with a group of weapon smugglers who worked elsewhere. They had some contacts, and so did Church's side, so they intended to talk about the possibility of a mutually beneficial relationship. Church, Sigma, Meta and Omega were going. Church would be doing a lot of the talking, with Sigma there to smooth over his rougher moments. Meta was there primarily to look scary, and there to act scary if something actually went wrong. Omega was there to patch them up if something went wrong. Gamma and Theta were dealing with a smaller gathering—comprised entirely of people who'd worked for them before—and Delta was back at home, working on some computer stuff that Church didn't really get. He usually was.

Meta was driving, while Sigma sat in the front seat and double-checked his weapon. Unfortunately, this left Church trapped in the backseat with Omega.

“Hey, not all of them were mine,” Church grumbled.

“Even so.”

“Look, don't take me to clubs, then. Why did you even want to go? Fuck, where did you even go after you dragged away Tex's sister?”

“I returned home, sober, so that I would not be hungover in the morning,” Sigma said primly.

“You wooed a girl, Alpha? One who could hold her liquor?” Omega grinned, shoving his feet into Church's lap. The response to this was Church shoving his feet away again, swearing profusely. “How was she? Supple organs?”

“I didn't carve her up, weirdo!”

“But did she have supple organs? In case you're not interested in dating. After all, that would require you to be socially adept. Now, myself, I'm sure I can be friendly for long enough to get her under the knife.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I mean, if you're going to be like that, I could always put you under the knife instead.”

“Children, please. Stop fighting,” Sigma said.

“He started it,” Church muttered.

Meta made a noise as he drove the car around a corner.

“Okay, I don't really understand what you just tried to say, but fuck you anyway.”

“Don't be rude.”

 

* * *

 

Only a few minutes beforehand, Carolina had been watching the warehouse from a nearby building, while two others sat in the room with her. Her partner, Wash, and a third agent called South, who'd only been an agent for a couple of years. She could do sneaky, but she could also do brute force. If things went upside today, they'd need a lot of brute force.

"How much longer? I'm starting to get pins and needles sitting here," Wash said, shifting around on the spot.

“Shouldn't be long, now stop fidgeting.”

“How do we know they're gonna show up? Will this be like the last time, when we ended up waiting hours for some guy who just happened to have the name 'Derek Sterling' or—“

"That was a misfire," Carolina muttered, her teeth gritted.

"Misfire. Right."

"Our information is good this time. It comes from the inside. And when I get foiled by a six-year-old and a man holding a paintball gun, then you can complain."

“Hey! Hey, come on.” Wash lowered his voice and said, “Not in front of the rookie.”

“Who you calling rookie?” South snapped.

“Hey, I had to be 'rookie' for like eight years!”

“Yeah, because you apparently got taken out by a six-year-old.”

“Okay, listen, that six-year-old had an assist. And the bald guy plays dirty.”

“You're not wrong about that,” Carolina said under her breath.

“But how do paintball pellets beat bullets? Seriously? Come on, tell me.” South grinned at Wash. “I want to picture how dumb you looked.”

“Carolina, she's being mean to me,” Wash said flatly.

“Be mean back,” Carolina said absently, still peering down at the street. She wondered if her attempt to convince Sigma to turn himself in had made him suspicious and prevented them from showing up today.

"Why are you even here, South? You're not high up enough for so big a job. I've been on the job for a decade and I barely scraped in!"

"Uh, because I'm good at what I do? Duh."

"Both of you, quiet!" Carolina snapped, turning around to glare at them.

Wash went silent immediately, but South protested, "Well, why's he questioning my right to be on this mission?"

"South, shut up or you'll be demoted."

"You can't do—"

“Can't I? Now be quiet.”

South went quiet, but with a scowl on her face. Carolina turned back towards the warehouse.

She saw a car pull up. Four people got out of it. She recognised Sigma and Maine amongst them, alongside that guy she'd seen a decade ago when she'd killed Jimmy and a fourth man who was probably that whackjob surgeon. She followed Maine for a moment with her binoculars, before looking back to Wash and South.

“You know your job. You stay outside the warehouse. Remember, you're here to stop anyone who flees. Director doesn't want any survivors from this lot.” She thought of Maine, and hesitated for a moment. “...No exceptions. If they're out there, you shoot.”

“We know, we know,” South said impatiently. “It's grunt work.”

“Someone has to do it,” Wash said, shrugging.

She'd have to hope she could talk Maine down, but if she couldn't… well, then Maine had picked his side.

“Ready?”

 

* * *

 

The warehouse was empty.

Church lingered near the back, scanning the place. They could have been out of sight. Or not here yet. But there was something about the place that made the back of his neck prickle. He glanced sideways at the others. Omega looked bored, but Sigma and Meta both looked ill at ease. They seemed to be communicating entirely with glances. A feat of telepathic communication that only those two could manage so well.

None of them said anything out loud. But Sigma turned to Church and raised an eyebrow slightly. Church gestured at Meta and Omega before nodding his head to the left side of the warehouse. Sigma looked back at Meta, who looked momentarily put out. But then he nodded. Grabbing Omega by the collar—receiving an annoyed mutter in return—Meta dragged Omega off to investigate the left side.

“Do you think something's actually wrong?” Church whispered, as he and Sigma slipped towards the right.

“Maybe. I'd say that keeping your hand near your gun would be prudent right now.”

Church removed his handgun from his belt and started checking corners, hoping that if the guys they were meeting with were here that they'd take the presence of guns well.

As they moved on, checking dark spots and corners, a sharp, faintly lemony scent hit Church's nostrils, making them sting a little. Cleaning supplies. This warehouse really was clean. Far too clean.

As he thought that, he heard a yelp from the other side. He and Sigma glanced at each other again before heading that way, winding around different crates and obstacles to get there.

What they found was Gamma. Gamma with his fist raised, looking as close to spooked as Church had ever seen him. Omega was sitting on the ground, holding a bloody nose. Meta was standing nearby, looking bemused.

“What the hell?” Church whispered angrily.

“I was surprised,” Gamma said calmly. “Omega, are you alright?”

“M'fine,” Omega said, although it came out slightly gurgly. He pinched his nose in an attempt to stop it bleeding. “You've got more of an arm than I would have expected.”

“You're too kind, Omega.”

“Will you two stop flirting and pay attention?” Church snapped, though he still kept his voice at a whisper. “Gamma, what are you even doing here?!”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Gamma replied. “I thought you were supposed to be on the other side of town.”

“No, you're supposed to be there. Where's Theta?”

“He's here.” Gamma waved his hand carefully, and the tiny red light from Theta's rifle flickered on the floor in front of Gamma for a moment before disappearing again. “Thought he better be out of sight in case I needed the cover fire.”

“Odd. Delta doesn't normally mix up missions like this. I'll call him and see who's supposed to be where,” Sigma said, pulling out his phone.

“...So we're all here,” Church said slowly.

“Apart from Delta, it would seem so.”

“...Shit. We have to leave. We have to go right fucking now,” Church hissed.

He took two steps back when suddenly voices started sounding out from around them.

“Freeze! Don't move a fucking muscle!”

“Hands in the air!”

“Drop your weapons!”

Amidst the surge of panic, a tiny part of Church's brain that was somehow still calm wondered which one of those things they wanted him to do first. He ended up dropping his gun and sticking his hands in the air as twelve people, all wearing black equipment that covered their identities and pointing guns at them, poured in from both sides of the warehouse. Trapped and surrounded.

Sigma dropped his phone as he raised his hands, and it clattered away and underneath one of the metal stands holding all the crates. Meta dropped his gun, but took a step forward to the nearest and slightly moved to try and screen Sigma from view. Gamma had gone stock still, while Omega looked halfway between raising his hands and going for his gun, his arms frozen in front of him. Church couldn't see Theta, but hoped he wasn't stupid enough to shoot. From all the footsteps he could hear, and the figures appearing at either end of the warehouse, he knew Theta wouldn't be able to take all of them down in time.

“Shit,” Church muttered.

“Shit is right.”

That came from one of the closest ambushers. Church recognised the voice, and it seems so did Sigma and Meta. Sigma got a look of resigned understanding on his face, while Meta suddenly looked terrified. Carolina lowered her gun, although the people around her kept them raised, before looking over all of them.

“So, I know Sigma. And...” She turned towards Meta for a moment, but didn't say anything. Meta shifted uncomfortably. After a moment, she looked towards the others. “Gamma and Omega.” She gestured at the high-up areas where Theta likely was. “Theta.” Then she looked back at Church. “So you must be Alpha. ...You know, given how much trouble you've caused for us I was expecting someone bigger.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Church muttered.

Carolina snorted. “Well, that seems in line with what I've heard about you.”

 

* * *

 

As usual, Delta was at his computer. Still wearing pajamas and with a muesli bar sticking out of his mouth as he typed a few lines of code. It was at this point that his phone rang. Delta finished the line he was working on before pulling the muesli bar out of his mouth, reaching for his mobile with his other hand.

He checked the caller. Sigma. He rarely called during a mission. He answered.

“Sigma?”

No response. But lots of noise. Footsteps and shouting. Delta immediately shifted the phone to his other hand, still listening, while at the same time reaching for the drawer that was always slightly ajar near his primary hand. Inside was a handgun.

As he reached for the gun, the footsteps and yelling stopped. He could hear, faintly, a voice. A list of codenames. He heard Theta's name among them.

Theta?

At this moment, a voice sounded out from behind him.

“Hands on your—“

If Delta hadn't already had his gun in hand, he might have been at too much of a disadvantage. But the moment he heard the voice, he turned and fired. A man in black crumpled in his doorway, the bullet lodged in his head.

The shock hadn't even worn off before Delta was on his feet. Stepping over the body and heading out of the house. Thinking about what this implied—that they'd not only ambushed everyone, but even tracked him to his home—could wait.

Right now, Theta was in danger.

 

* * *

 

“You've all got two choices. Come quietly with us, or get shot in the face. Your call.”

“And if we go with you?” Church asked.

“You might not die.”

“What do you mean, might?”

“I mean it depends how good a mood the Director is in.”

“I think we should take it,” Gamma said quietly.

“Don't be stupid, it's death either way,” Omega snapped. “I say we kill them.”

“With what? Our quick wit?”

“If it comes down to that, I think Alpha's doomed.”

“God, this is so not the time,” Church said through gritted teeth.

Carolina looked at them, then moved over until she was face to face with Meta. Meta wasn't looking at her.

“Don't listen to her, Meta,” Sigma murmured.

“Why don't you let him listen to whoever he wants, Sigma?” Carolina snapped, before looking back at Meta. When next she spoke, her voice was softer. “Doesn't have to be this way, Maine. There's still time. All you need to do is walk over here, and I promise you… I promise I'll do better this time.”

“She's lying,” Sigma said to Meta. “Besides, she has a new partner. She replaced you.”

Meta looked at Carolina, shifting uncomfortably.

“Maine. I don't want to have to kill you.”

“She replaced you,” Sigma repeated, this time more forcefully. “She got you shot. She doesn't deserve a second chance.”

Meta looked between Carolina and Sigma, discomfit and uncertainty scrawled across his face. Then his eyes flickered towards the exit.

“Maine—“ Carolina started.

Meta bolted, ramming one of the nearer ambushers with his shoulder and running. Several of the guns pointed at him, but Carolina held out a hand to try and stop them.

“Maine, don't go out there!” she yelled.

Too late, and now everyone was distracted. The moment half of the guns pointed towards Meta, Omega went for his gun. At the same time, two gunshots went off from above and the men closest to Sigma and Church collapsed.

“Get to cover!” Church yelled.

Everyone scattered, and Church couldn't make sense of anything after that over the hail of gunfire. It was chaos. Somewhere amid it all, something white-hot skimmed Church's shoulder, but that was all Church noticed until he managed to take cover behind one of the shelves. Gamma joined him a few seconds later, completely uninjured. He had picked his gun up on the way. Church wished he'd thought to pick up his own, even if he wasn't great with it.

“I take it that surrendering is not an option,” Gamma said flatly.

“Well, it's not now!” Church yelled back. “Goddammit. God-fucking-dammit.”

“What are our chances of escape, then?”

“I can't see shit. Cover me while I stick my head out.”

Gamma nodded, standing up and starting to fire. Church stuck his head out to have a look at the same time. He spotted Theta on the second-floor railings, running for a better vantage point. He also saw that Carolina had directed two of the attackers to head that way. Sigma was sheltering not far from them, looking as close to distressed as he'd ever looked. Omega was hiding a little closer to the action, grinning and firing his handgun, but his aim with a gun wasn't much better than Church's.

Meanwhile, Carolina was backing slowly towards the direction Meta had gone, but was stopping to direct her men. Apart from the two Theta had shot at the start, one more had been taken down—either by Theta or by Omega's wild shooting—but that still left nine of them, including Carolina. And once Theta got cornered by the two after him, there wouldn't be much stopping the others from cornering them.

Church ducked down again, and Gamma followed.

“Well?”

“...I think we're fucked. So not great.”

“You're so negative, Alpha.”

“You're the one who said we should surrender.”

“I didn't say it wasn't true. And you have no ideas?”

“...Well, they have to run out of bullets sometime.”

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, at the parking lot outside the back of the warehouse, Wash and South were having a very important discussion.

“How dare you? Say that to my face, bitch.”

“I will say it to your face! The burgers there don't even taste good!”

South let out a little, offended noise. “You don't know good burgers!”

“South, the burgers were literally saturated in fat,” Wash protested.

“What's your point?”

“You're gonna get a heart attack before you're forty.”

“Kiss my ass, Wash, I'm gonna live forever.”

“Now that's just unrealistic.”

“Well, at least I'll be having fun, unlike your health-conscious ass.”

“Why is being health-conscious bad?!”

South opened her mouth to explain, in precise and foul-mouthed detail, just why it was bad, when gunshots came from inside. She and Wash both reached for their guns, sliding off the waist-high wall they'd both been sitting on while they kept watch.

No movement for three seconds, during which neither of them moved. They barely even breathed, just waiting. Then a door slammed open. Wash and South opened fire immediately, and the man who'd tried to leave—a bald man who looked like he could bench-press the both of them—immediately ducked back through the doorway, taking shelter.

Wash and South exchanged a couple of hand signals before running towards the door, both moving for opposite sides of the doorway. But as Wash got near, the man bolted out again.

He moved fast for such a big guy.

Before Wash could even process it, the man hit him like a bulldozer, shoulder-first. He wrestled Wash's gun from his hands, and with a snarl flung it on the roof of the warehouse.

Shit.

A shot went off. South had shot at the man, but missed. A second bullet hit, lodging itself in the man's chest. All it seemed to do was draw the man's notice, as he turned and lunged at South instead.

South wasn't quite so unlucky as to get her gun thrown on the roof. It was only knocked out of her hands. She blocked the next punch, but the force still sent her stumbling back a little. Wash attacked from behind, kicking the man's back.

It didn't seem to matter what they did. The bald man hit hard and fast, and never let either of them back away far enough to run for the gun that had been knocked out of South's hands. Punches and kicks filled the air but never left a lasting impact.

“Don't panic, don't panic!” Wash yelled at South.

“You're the one panicking!” she shouted back, narrowly stopping the man from breaking her nose.

It was a stalemate, but if they could just outlast the man… if they could do that, Carolina would find them. And once Carolina caught up, the fight would be over. Because Carolina was the strongest of them.

Then there was the distant sound of an engine. Out of the corner of Wash's eye, beyond the parking lot, he saw a dark green van on the road, skidding a little at the speed it was plummeting forward at.

“Is that a—“

Wash turned his attention away from the man, which didn't matter because both South and their opponent had spotted the van, too. The van wasn't slowing down and heading right towards them. Behind the wheel was a skinny man in green pajamas, staring them down with a look of absolute focus.

“Car?!”

Wash dived away just in time, as did the other two. And the van plummeted right into the wall.

 

* * *

 

The crashing sound of most of one wall of the warehouse collapsing interrupted Church's vague, pondering thoughts of 'hey, is that the sound of an engine?' Carolina had been a little too close to the wall, and had either dived out of sight to avoid the rubble, been knocked away by the rubble, or possibly a mixture of both. The rest of the Director's men scattered in a panic.

Delta's van skidded and bounced across the warehouse, hitting one of the Director's men and sending him flying, before coming to a halt only meters from Church and Gamma. Delta sat frozen for a moment, looking amazed that he wasn't dead, before he reached for his own gun in the compartment, pressing the horn on the van twice before starting to lay down covering fire.

“Go. Go!” Church shouted at Gamma, giving him a push in the direction of the van before bolting himself while everyone was still confused.

They ran the couple of meters to the van, yanking open the van door and clambering inside. Church climbed into the shotgun seat next to Delta.

“Holy shit, I can't believe you did that,” he muttered.

“Where is Theta?” Delta asked immediately, still shooting.

“Up there,” Church said, pointing at the railings. “I haven't seen him in a while, though, and two guys got sent up after him. But he shoots every now and again, so we think he's still fine.”

“He can take care of himself,” Gamma said. “We need to leave while there's still time.”

“And leave the others? Don't be an asshole,” Church snapped.

“Don't pretend you wouldn't leave me and Omega behind if it was just us.”

“I wouldn't! ...You two know way too much to leave you in the hands of these assholes.”

“Well, you aren't wrong but—“

Gamma cut off, looking out one of the windows. Omega had tried to run for the van, but one of the Director's men had gotten their wits together enough to shoot and gotten him in the hip. Omega had hit the ground, but was dragging himself back to shelter again. Gamma's mouth tightened into a thin line and he grabbed the door handle of the van.

“...You better prove it, then. I will be back in a moment.” He opened the door and headed out again. He passed Sigma as he did so, who climbed in immediately to replace him.

“Quite an entrance, Delta,” Sigma said. “Did you see Meta?”

“He was fighting two of the Director's people outside. Nothing beyond his abilities. Where is Theta?”

“I told you—“ Church said.

“If he cannot make it here himself, I will have to go and find him.” Delta reached for the car handle, but Sigma grabbed his wrist.

“Don't be ridiculous, Delta. You'll never make it there and back. Theta's good at what he does. He can get out on his own,” Sigma said.

“If you are suggesting I leave Theta behind—“ Delta started, glaring at Sigma.

“What is with everyone and leaving the rest of us behind?” Church muttered. He pried Delta's handgun out of his hand, Delta too distracted by Sigma to lay down proper cover fire, and started firing wildly.

“I am saying he's a crack shot. If you and Alpha go down, who leads?”

Delta continued to glare at Sigma before closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked less angry, but still resolved. “I would prefer to stay.”

Sigma didn't get go of his wrist. He looked at Delta for one more second before letting go. “Then stay here. But if something goes wrong, retreat. No matter what the headcount is.” He pushed open the van door and ran, heading for the stairs that would lead to the second-floor railing. Church handed Delta back his gun, and Delta covered him as best he could until Sigma was out of sight.

A minute after Sigma had left the van, the door slid open again and Gamma climbed in. He was supporting Omega, who he then propped up in one of the seats before searching the van for a first-aid kit.

“Is he gonna live?” Church asked shortly.

“Probably?” Gamma said.

“I'm fine,” O'Malley said through gritted teeth. He grinned at Church. “This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened. This is more like what I was promised.”

“Then we'll go out and get you shot more often, but for now can we just focus on not dying?!”

 

* * *

 

Dust had filled the air. Coughing, Wash went to get to his feet when his opponent hit him at what felt like the same speed that the van had just hit the wall with. He saw South out of the corner of his eye, a little slower to get to her feet. She'd gotten scraped up by some rubble, but she was moving. And she wasn't too far from the gun.

Wash attacked and wrapped his arms around the man's neck. His feet left the ground entirely, legs waving around ineffectually in the air as he held on with all he had, occasionally trying to kick the man or, in one particularly desperate moment, trying to bite him.

South finally got to her feet, touching her face briefly. The rubble had left a gash in her cheek which was streaming blood. But she lunged forward, feet slipping here and there on the rubble, and got the gun. She turned. She pointed it at the two of them.

“Shoot! Shoot!” Wash yelled, as the opponent turned to look at her.

She had a clear shot. A clear shot of the man's chest, and the blood still dribbling from the first time she'd shot him. She hesitated.

“South!” Wash shouted.

South hesitated longer. And then when the man swung around abruptly, Wash still clinging to his neck for dear life, South fired and hit him in the back.

“Ow, son of a—“

Wash's arms slipped off the man's neck, and he hit the ground hard.

South's gun was still raised, now aimed at the man properly.

“Look, here's the deal,” she said shortly, although her teeth were gritted in an obvious attempt to stop anything but business being expressed. “He's been around longer. He knows more than I do. If you want the people who set this ambush up, he's the one you want. So your choice. Chase me and lose him to blood loss, or keep him alive and useful. So, what's it going to be?”

The man snarled at her. South took a step back. Then the man turned back to crouch next to Wash, looking at the bullet wound.

“Good choice.”

She looked down at Wash. Crumpled on the ground, his cheek pressed into the dirt. His eyes staring right at her with more venom than he'd ever seen.

“...Sorry.”

She ran.

 

* * *

 

“We need to go,” Gamma insisted.

“No,” Delta said.

“Okay, look, I don't want to agree with Gamma, but those assholes are getting really close,” Church said, peering through the van window before ducking down again. The remainder of the Director's men were getting closer and closer. He couldn't see Carolina anywhere, and that put him more on edge than if he had seen her.

“I will not leave without Theta,” Delta said.

“Shit.”

Church watched the men get closer. Movement caught his eye. Sigma had appeared back on the staircase, pulling Theta along by his arm. Theta was limping, leaving a little trail of blood from his bad leg, and his lack of a weapon suggested that he'd been disarmed. Church heard Delta exhale in what might have been relief.

“Start the van, we're gonna have to go the moment they get in,” Church said.

Sigma slid behind shelter for a moment, keeping an arm on Theta to steady him, before leaving and running for the van. Delta reached out and pushed open the van door for them.

There was a gunshot. Sigma's head snapped to the left from the force of the bullet. The right side of his head exploded. He tumbled to the ground, hand slipping off Theta, and he didn't move. Carolina stood only a few meters away, gun still raised and pointed where Sigma's head had been a second ago.

There was a feeling in the pit of Church's stomach… a weird numbness that he'd only felt once before, when a doctor came out and told him and his father that his mother had died. But numb meant no pain. Pain could wait until the rest of them were safe.

Delta stared blankly for a moment, gun lowering for a moment as he looked at Sigma's body. Then he raised the gun again and fired at Carolina, forcing her to back away and hide behind shelter again. Theta grabbed Sigma's arm and tried to pull him towards the van, but Sigma was too heavy. Without saying a word, Delta jumped out of the van.

“Delta, don't be an idiot—“ Church yelled.

Delta didn't move carefully. He just ran. He ran and he grabbed Theta's arm, and pulled Theta away from Sigma. Theta was shouting something—they could see his mouth moving from where they were—but they couldn't hear it and Delta didn't reply.

They both reached the van. Delta helped Theta climb in with his bad leg. Theta looked like he was in shock.

“He was too heavy,” Theta said shakily.

“We can't do shit for him now,” Church said. He knew he was coming off as cold. But he needed to be. There would be time later for things like 'it wasn't your fault.' “Delta, get in the damn van!”

Delta didn't get in the van. Instead, he turned right back around and left, gun clutched in his hand.

“Delta! ...Idiot!” Church hissed. He looked down.

Delta had left the keys in the ignition.

“Close the door. We're going. We'll pick up Delta and Meta on our way out.”

As he fiddled with the keys, Church glanced up to see Delta running. He came to a halt near Sigma's body, just for a moment, looking down at it. Knuckles white on the trigger, mouth tight. He reached towards Sigma's body for a moment, then lowered his hand.

Then he ran in the direction Carolina had vanished in.

 

* * *

 

One down.

Carolina winded her way around the shelves and crates littering the room, her feet sliding on rubble as she got closer to the back. She expected… something. Happiness, maybe? Sigma had been a problem for so long. Sigma had messed Maine up. She'd freed Maine from that, hadn't she?

Maine…

Where was Maine?

Had Wash and South killed him? ...Had Maine killed them?

She reached the collapsed wall. It was unstable. Pieces were crumbling or dangling here and there. The floor was a mess. There was blood. A lot of blood.

Carolina pointed her gun at Maine, who looked over at the sound of Carolina's feet moving over the rubble. He was crouched over Wash, who he'd left on his side. He'd torn off part off his shirt, and had it pressed against Wash's back, where all the blood was coming from. His other hand he'd used to tilt Wash's face towards him. Staring at this face with a puzzled expression.

Carolina tried not to let her voice shake.

“Don't make me do this, Maine!”

Maine tilted his head. He let go of Wash's face, and it just thumped into the ground. His eyes, the only visible part of his face, were half-open, but it was impossible to tell if he was conscious or not. Maine gestured at Wash with his free hand, and made a furious noise.

“Whatever your problems with what I did to you… it's between us. Leave Wash out of it.” Carolina took a step forward. “I didn't mean to replace you, Maine! And I didn't mean to leave you to deal with everything on your own! And I messed up, and I got you injured! And I'm sorry! But it's between us.”

Maine tilted his head, before looking away. He let out a dismissive snort.

“Let Wash go. Come with me.” Carolina lowered her gun for a moment, tucking it back into her holster, before using sign language to speak her next few words. " _And we can talk like we should have done so many years ago._ "

Maine stared at her hands, then at her. For a moment, he looked like he was going to agree. His eyes looked watery. He looked down, either out of indecision or to hide it, his jaw tightening. Carolina waited. Her eyes flickered down to Wash, who was stirring feebly. His eyes opened a little more. His hand weakly closed, except for one finger, which pointed in her direction.

Why was Wash pointing at her—

Gunshot.

Something hit Carolina in her lower back. A burst of pain, worse than anything she'd ever felt… and then no feeling at all below the waist. Her legs collapsed, and she tumbled down the rubble. She landed on her back.

She saw Maine reach out towards her, letting out a horrible, inhuman scream. Wash lying there, unable to help but his eyes so clearly on her, even as he lost consciousness. And Delta, standing above her, gun trained on her. Fury etched into every line on his face.

Another gunshot, this time to the head. After that, she didn't feel anything at all.

 

* * *

 

“Come on, come onnn… fuck this van!” Church kicked it once before trying to start it up again. “Come onnnn… oh, thank christ.” A plume of smoke was issuing from part of it, and the van was all crumpled at the front and covered in dents from bullets, but somehow it was still working.

They started to roll forward. Slowly, but they were moving. Gamma stopped tending to Omega for a moment to pick up his gun and make sure no-one got too close. Theta had found a spare gun in the van and was doing the same, although his hands were shaking more than they usually did with a gun.

The van drove over the rubble, threatening to stop once or twice as the wheels hit bigger chunks of debris. And then rolled to a stop next to the group of people outside.

Delta was standing over Carolina, firing his handgun over and over. It was obvious she was down. Obvious she wasn't going to be getting up again. But Delta kept shooting, again and again. Meta had his hand outstretched, but seemed to have frozen. Watching Delta shoot her with wide eyes. Even when Delta ran out of bullets, he kept pulling the trigger. Again and again and again.

Delta didn't stop until Theta pulled himself out of the van and touched his arm.

“Dee… we have to go,” he said gently.

Delta pulled the trigger twice more. His head lowered for a moment. Then he turned around and climbed into the van without a word. Meta stared at Carolina, then seemed to remember where he was. He scooped up the man he was crouching over and tossed him into the van before climbing in himself and closing the door. Church pulled away, leaving the warehouse behind. Eventually, bullets stopped pinging off the van.

Everything was silent. Delta had started pulling out items from the first-aid kit to help Theta's leg, while Gamma was back to fixing up Omega. Meta was sitting in the corner with the unconscious man he'd brought with him, who was bleeding all over everything. Meta himself was bleeding from the chest, although it didn't seem to be bothering him. The only one not hurt at all was Gamma.

“Meta. Why the fuck did you bring that guy?” Church said tiredly.

Meta didn't answer. He was looking at his own hands. Gamma, however, looked over before reaching out and tugging the man a little closer. He removed the equipment obscuring the agent's face before pulling out his earpiece and putting it on. Church glanced back again and recognised the mop of blond hair.

“Fuck. I know that guy. I… I don't know his name, but he was one of the two that ambushed me, Eddie and Si… and Sigma… ten years ago.”

“Carolina's partner?” Omega said, perking up. “He's bound to know something.”

“Perhaps he knows why the Director's men found us today,” Gamma said. He pulled off the headset. “Didn't get much from this. Heard a man—very calm voice—giving out orders to scan the warehouse, then they shut this signal off once they realised that 'Agent Washington' and 'Agent South Dakota' were no longer outside, and that Agent Carolina was in critical condition.”

Delta hadn't said anything. Meta, of course, hadn't either. But he was now looking around the van, his expression growing increasingly more agitated.

“You think this guy will know?” Theta asked.

“Dibs,” Omega said, laughing. “Let me torture him for information. I promise you, anything he knows? He'll say.”

“Torture's fucked up,” Church muttered. “We can find a different way.”

“Like what? We say 'pretty please?' Torture's the only way we have,” Omega said. “And you said when you hired me that I had first dibs on torture victims. So dibs.”

“I don't like it,” Theta said quietly.

“Oh, you gonna get all holy on me? You stay out of this,” Omega snapped at him. “You shouldn't have any say in this business. You have the mind of a child and the simplistic morals of one to go with it. And if it hadn't been for you, getting trapped on that railing, then we'd still have a full van of people.”

Theta looked like he'd been struck. So did Meta, who stopped looking around the van to focus on Omega. Realisation dawned on his face, but still he looked for confirmation. Omega glanced over at him, and his mouth twisted into a bitter grin.

“That's right. You noticed he's not in the van, didn't you? Well, you have Theta for thank for that.” Omega waved his hand at Theta. “Sigma ran out to save him. Lost the side of his head as thanks for his trouble. That Carolina's a good shot.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Church snarled at him. “Can you not be an ass for one goddamn moment?”

“What do you want me to do, sugar coat it?” Omega snapped back.

“Omega,” Gamma said sharply. Omega looked back at him, then fell silent with a frown.

Meta looked at Omega, then at Theta. When Theta wouldn't look at him, he looked down at his own hands. Opened them, Shut them. Reached up and touched the tattoo on the back of his head, suddenly looking petrified. All of a sudden, he got to his feet. Flung open the door of the van and jumped out, before disappearing into one of the nearby alleyways.

“Shit, Meta, come back!” Church shouted.

“He knows how to find us,” Omega said dismissively. “He'll catch up.”

Church gave Omega a look of contempt before looking back at the road. He knew they should go after Meta, but there was a lot to think about. And at least there were no attackers here.

Silence took over for thirty seconds. During which their attention periodically flickered to the agent on the floor of the van.

Delta broke the silence at last.

“Do it.”

“You serious?” Church yelped.

“Dee, no!” Theta whispered.

Delta looked at the agent. Fury was still scrawled across his face, and his eyes were blazing in a way that none of them had ever seen before. He looked at the agent like someone might look at a crushed bug on the sole of their shoe.

“I have tried to find the Director before through conventional means. It has never worked. If it cannot be done that way, then torture will do just as well. Perhaps even better.”

“Jesus Christ, Dee,” Church said through gritted teeth.

“Do you have a plan? Do you know where the Director is?”

“No, but—“

“Then we do this. We torture him. We find the Director, and anyone else associated with his operation. We kill them.” Church saw Delta staring at him through the rear-view mirror. That look in Delta's eyes was really giving him the creeps.

“This is not up for debate.”

Church shook his head, but didn't protest it further. “...Well, what I do know is we need a new van. People are gonna notice the state this one's in.”

“Take us back to my house. There is a spare car,” Delta said. “We will all have to move to a new safehouse. One of the Director's men ambushed me inside my room.”

“What?! You didn't think to tell us that earlier?!” Church yelled, his voice hitting a high pitch.

“Theta and I will need to prepare for the transfer. Once we arrive at my house, you may take the car and pick up Epsilon. You may drop off Gamma and Omega on the way so that they may do the same. I will send the location of the new safehouse to all of you, as well as Meta.”

“Shit. Alright. Alright,” Church said quietly. His hands tightened on the wheel.

He hoped they hadn't found his home yet. And if they'd found that out, what else did they know?

 

* * *

 

Church tried to look normal going up to his apartment. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done. He was afraid that he would get up there and it'd be empty. That, somehow, they'd ambushed his home, too.

He started shouting the moment he got in the door. "Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

"Leo?" Eddie stuck his head out of the bathroom. "What's going on?"

"Oh, thank god. We have to go. Pack up anything essential. We're leaving right now."

"What, really? Why?"

"Because shit just fucking happened, I don't have time to explain!" Eddie was staring at him with wide eyes. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"The last time you were so quick to get us moving... that was when Dad died. Something really bad must have happened."

Church briefly covered his face. "Yeah. Yeah, it..."

"Are the others okay? Leo? What happened?"

"I... I'll explain on the way. I just... We need to leave. Okay?"

"Okay." Eddie hurried off to his room to grab his stuff. Church looked around the kitchen, and spotted a piece of paper stuck to the fridge. It was Tex's phone number. He pulled it off the fridge, looked at it for a moment.

It would make sense to throw it away and change numbers. Get rid of anything that could be linked to him. Church kept staring at the number, turning the piece of paper over in his hands.

After a few moments of consideration, he slipped it into his pocket. He would later say it made sense at the time.

 

* * *

 

The Director knew it was dangerous to be out in the open, so soon after the failed ambush. Who knew what dangers could be lurking out there? Who knew if, somehow, the Alpha and his syndicate had followed the remains of the ambush instead of fleeing. But the Director had people around the hospital. He would be safe.

He wasn't the one who was in a coma after having a gun emptied into him. He wasn't the one who, on the slim chance that she ever woke up, would be lucky if she could move.

The Director stood pensively outside Carolina's room, hands behind his back and looking at his daughter. His son-in-law was inside, but hadn't noticed his presence. York had fallen asleep before the Director got there, still clinging onto Carolina's hand.

He was unsure if Allison had been told. Allison wouldn't have accepted his calls if he'd tried to contact her. Hadn't since she'd left high school.

He heard footsteps behind him. He didn't turn around or acknowledge them in any way.

“Sir? ...How are you feeling?”

The Director frowned a little deeper, still not turning around. “Say what you came here to say, Counselor.”

“Of course.” Price moved to stand next to him, also looking inside the hospital room. He paused for a moment, after taking in the surroundings, before speaking. “All those involved in today's mission are accounted for, dead or alive, except for one. Agent Washington. According to Agent South Dakota, he may have been kidnapped or killed. The lack of a body suggests the former. If so, there could be problems.”

“...How much does Washington know?”

“Enough that it could be a concern, sir.”

“And what does the informant have to say? Can he confirm Washington's status?”

“We have yet to receive contact from him.”

The Director went silent. He moved closer to the glass, fingers touching it lightly as he observed Carolina. She hadn't moved yet. Her face was obscured largely by bandages, as were large parts of her body. She looked too fragile on the bed. Carolina had never been fragile. This felt intrinsically wrong, in a similar way to how everything had felt wrong since the rest of his family had, one by one, left. Through either death or just their own will.

He lowered his hand, clasping it back with the other behind his back again.

“Counselor.”

“Sir?”

“Contact Grey. We will need her assistance.”

“Are you su—“

“Now, Counselor.”

“...Of course.”

The Director listened to his footsteps fade. He took one more look at Carolina, before turning around and leaving. If Allison showed up, he was not sure that he wanted to be here. Not right now. Not when things were like this. He already knew what she'd say.

And there were arrangements to be made.

 

* * *

 

Wash thought he couldn't wake up for a moment. That he was trapped in some kind of pitch-black nightmare. Then he realised his eyes were open. But there was no discernible difference in darkness when he blinked.

His wrists were bound, and the same was true for his ankles. That was bad enough, but there was also something metal around his neck. It was keeping him chained to the pipe his back was resting against. At least, it felt like a pipe. Wash couldn't say for sure.

His back hurt. Wow, did his back hurt. Why did—South. Oh, that fucking bitch, how could she do that to him? Still. He had been shot before. Never in the back, but he'd been shot. Someone had mended him, although the position he was stuck in was made extra agonizing by the back pain.

This… was not good.

“Hello?” he said groggily. “Hello?”

He got a chuckle in return.

"Well. It seems you're awake. Wonderful. I was getting tired of waiting."

"Where am I? What's this metal thing around my neck? What... what happened?"

“Your little ambush didn't go as well as planned.” Wash heard movement, but couldn't see it. “Do you remember?”

“I… parts. There was a… a huge, bald guy. And he growled a lot. And… and South shot me, and Carolina—Carolina!”

God, he remembered that. The last thing he saw. Her tumbling down, bleeding, and the skinny man in green pajamas shooting her over and over. But it didn't seem real. It… it couldn't be real. Carolina couldn't be dead. She was the toughest person he'd ever met.

The voice laughed. “Ah, so you remember that, do you? I wish I'd gotten a better view of it. I never knew Delta could be so vindictive! Almost makes me want to cry. Like a mother watching their little brat graduate.”

Wash heard a scraping noise nearby, like someone pulling up a chair nearby. The voice was now so much closer.

“Let me fill you in on the important facts, my little friend. No-one knows you're here. And you have something we want. So here's the deal. You're going to talk. And the longer you stay quiet? The more this hurts you.”

Wash felt something cold press against the side of his face. Metal. Not sharp. Not a knife. A tool of some kind. The man talking to him opened and shut the tool, and he realised with a chill what they were.

Pliers.

“Personally? I hope you don't talk for a very long time.”

He couldn't see the speaker. But he knew they were smiling.


	14. Flashback Six - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth flashback out of eight, continuing the story of how the main six inmates ended up in prison. This part contains the stories of the others.
> 
> Sister gets into some trouble, and an attempt to get even with the guy who put her in that trouble spirals out of control. Tucker gets into some money issues, and takes a big conning job to try and fix them. Caboose ends up lost in the city, and attracts the attention of a man looking for a bouncer. Donut gets drunk and chatters at his roommate incessantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring, as far as I can recall, the first on-screen appearance of a couple of Chorus characters--although Grey has been mentioned, I think. But we got a minor one and a more notable one making their appearances. Huzzah.

**Grif and Simmons**

 

Sister had mastered the art of creeping around the apartment after dark. She knew exactly which parts of the floor creaked. How to open and close all the doors with the least amount of noise. At what point in the night Grif was in the deepest sleep and wouldn't hear Sister moving around.

She was very good. The sort of good that only came with a mixture of having an insatiable urge to party and an overprotective brother who would probably freeze Sister in a block of ice if it would keep her safe.

Really, it's not as if she needed protection. It wasn't as if Grif could stop her. She was twenty-two and it was perfectly legal for her to go out to drink. Alright, the drugs weren't legal, but everything else was. It was just easier for Grif not to know.

The only problem was that she couldn't accurately predict Simmons' sleeping patterns. They were often all over the place. So when she slipped past the kitchen and heard movement, she let out a brief little squeak before muffling herself.

“Simmons, what the fuck?” she whispered. Simmons blinked sleepily at her, holding a mug of hot chocolate and in his maroon bathrobe. They were now at a level of comfort that Simmons didn't even get embarrassed about it. Though, thankfully, not comfortable enough for more kissing to happen.

(Don't get her wrong, Sister would still totally smooch Simmons, but kissing her brother's boyfriend would just be weird and probably result in another 'having to leave the apartment' huffy fit again. She didn't go around smooching other people's partners, anyway – way more drama than it was worth.)

“What do you mean, what the fuck? You're the one sneaking out.”

“Who is up this late? I mean, yeah, I am, but I have a social life. No offence. And you didn't turn the lights on or anything. How'd you make hot chocolate in the dark?”

Simmons shrugged. “I wanted a drink. I was working on something that I need to send off soon, and I lost track of time. Plus, last time I turned the lights on at night I woke Grif up. Where are you going?”

Sister fidgeted. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just hanging out with a bunch of cool people.”

“...They're drug addicts, aren't they?”

“Okay, listen, they're functional addicts. And one of them's holding some good shit, okay? I'm not going anywhere shady, though, Club Errera is pretty solid. Just a good place to meet the dude.”

Simmons let out a disapproving 'hrm.'

“I won't bring any home. And I know the rules. I'm allowed to tell the hospital what I took and they can't rat me out if something goes wrong. Not that it will go wrong, but just in case. Like, as long as I don't tell cops or get into a fight it's fine.”

“That… doesn't make me feel better.”

“Look, you're not my dad. That would have made the kissing that happened one time real awkward, unless you've got a kink. Don't make that high-pitched splutter you do, I'm trying to be quiet here.” Simmons, about to make said splutter, covered his mouth. “You can't tell me what to do. Don't tell Grif, you know how he gets.”

“You'll be safe?”

“Yeah, totally. I'll be back some time tomorrow. If Grif wakes up at his usual time just tell him I went out. Like, 'went out in the morning' out.”

“...Alright. But only because I know he takes over-protectiveness to the extreme.”

“Thanks, Simmons. I owe you, I'll figure out a way to pay it back that isn't, y'know, something that'll set your 'but that's illegal' thing off. Maybe once they legalize marijuana.”

“...Wait, what?”

Sister didn't answer, instead waving before tip-toeing out of the apartment. She passed the sofa on the way. Grif was sprawled across it, mouth open and one arm dangling off the edge of the couch. He'd always preferred sleeping on the sofa to sharing a bed, and that had stayed the same even since he and Simmons became a thing. Simmons didn't like letting Grif into his room, anyway. They liked maintaining that little bit of space.

Weird. But not Sister's concern. Her concern was that the good stuff that the dealer she wanted to talk to would be gone before she got down to the club.

 

* * *

 

The next day, in the afternoon, Grif and Simmons were taking advantage of an empty apartment to try some things.

They'd been together a year now, but the issue was that Simmons was an incredibly shy person who didn't like anyone seeing him naked. Grif included. He was convinced that if Grif saw his weedy, gross torso he'd come to his senses and dump Simmons immediately.

This made sex difficult. They'd discovered a solution, however. Blindfolds. Grif couldn't make fun of how Simmons looked if he was blindfolded. But doing this in Simmons' room had resulted in Grif tripping over the cords plugging Simmons' computer into the war and he'd sent a bunch of expensive shit toppling over. Thankfully, only scratch damage. But Simmons wasn't letting a blindfolded Grif loose in his room again any time soon.

So, with an empty apartment, what better time than now to try using the main room instead?

“I still say you're a wuss,” Grif said, touching the blindfold over his eyes.

“I'm a wuss? You're the one getting whiny about the blindfold. It's not like I'm grabbing ropes or anything.”

“Look, that's not the issue. Hell, ropes could be fun. I'm down with ropes. If you tie me down I have an excuse not to move as much. Plus, it'd be kind of hot.”

“Well, why'd you have to tell me now? I can't just produce proper ropes out of nowhere.”

“My point is that you being a baby about me seeing you naked is stupid. Come on, let me take the blindfold off.”

“Nope. Now quit fidgeting.”

“Can't we use your bed again?”

“No, I've got shit running, I can't have you tripping over the power cord again.”

“Well, can't you stop downloading porn for one minute?”

“I don't download porn!”

“Sure you don't, Simmons. Come on, why else would you always switch the screen off when I go in there?”

Simmons would be lying if he said that responding by running a hand lightly along Grif's back, followed by leaning forward and nipping his neck lightly, was not at all a way to distract from Grif nearing some things he wasn't ready to tell him about. Grif dropped the subject almost immediately, reacting to the touch like a cat being stroked.

“Blindfold's still bullshit,” he mumbled, although he had a grin on his face.

“Sorry,” Simmons muttered. He buried his face in Grif's shoulder, face flushing with embarrassment even though he knew Grif couldn't see shit.

“...S'fine. You know I don't mean it when I give you shit, right?”

“Yeah. I know.” Simmons paused for a moment, then said, “Can we just… y'know?”

“Bang?”

“Yeah, that.”

In true moment-interrupting fashion, that's when the phone went off.

“Goddammit!” Grif yelled. He reached in the general direction of the phone, but tripped over the sofa on the way to get it. “Shit. I do not know my way around this place blind.”

Simmons rolled his eyes before picking up the phone. “Hello?”

He listened to the first couple of sentences. Dead silent, Simmons reached over and pulled up Grif's blindfold with his free hand. Grif, who'd been grumbling under his breath at that point, immediately went quiet and gave Simmons a 'what the fuck's going on' look.

Simmons told the person on the phone to wait a second and covered the mouthpiece, looking at Grif. He'd gone pale.

“Sister's in the hospital.”

 

* * *

 

Drug overdose, they said. Found unconscious on the side of the road. If the random passerby hadn't found her, she probably would have died.

There were no words shared on the way there. Simmons drove. He didn't trust Grif to drive normally, but especially not while he was clenching his fists like that and looking like he'd just witnessed the sky falling on his head.

They got to Sidewinder Hospital, and one of the doctors led them to Sister's bed. They found her lying there, awake and staring at the ceiling with a disquieted, thoughtful expression. Neither of which was something often seen on Sister's face.

The moment she saw that Grif and Simmons had entered the room, however, she gave them a big grin.

“Oh, finally! Thank god, I was going to die of boredom.”

Despite the grin, she didn't look good. Her eyes looked tired, red and smudgy. Her hair was rumpled and seemed to have traces of mud in it, and when they got closer they could smell a hint of vomit wafting around her. Overall, she looked like she'd been bitten by zombies and only had a few minutes before she turned into one of them.

Simmons glanced sideways at Grif, but Grif didn't seem to want to move forward. His hands weren't clenched any more, but otherwise there had been no change. Simmons kicked him lightly in the shin, and Grif gave him a glare. After having a telepathic conversation that essentially boiled down to 'sit down and stop being weird, asshole,' Grif finally moved towards Sister and sat down in the seat closest to her bed. Simmons dragged over a chair from elsewhere in the room and did the same.

“You're so quiet and dire. Jeez, you're acting like I died,” Sister complained. “Look, just a little fuck-up. No big deal. Doctors say I can go home once they're sure the shit's out of my system.”

“I told you not to take shit,” Grif said quietly.

“Yeah, but you tell me to do a lot of things. 'Don't take heavy drugs.' 'Don't get pregnant again.' 'Please stop showing everyone your ping pong ball trick.' Besides, wasn't my fault. It's the fault of that bullshit dealer.”

“You… you mentioned a dealer, right?” Simmons said. “The one hanging around Club Errera? It was stuff he gave you?”

Grif glared at Simmons. “You knew?”

“I knew she went to a club, I just—“

“And you didn't tell me?!”

“Grif, not now,” Sister complained. “My head hurts. So does everything else.” Grif did quiet down, but he gave Simmons a look that clearly said this wasn't over.

“This dealer… the fuck did he do?”

“Well, me and some friends were chilling with him, and he said that he had some really dope shit and that if we fooled around he'd share. And I'm like, 'cool,' because hey. I love fooling around while high. Amplifies the feelings and all that, if it's the right stuff.

“Anyway, he was supposed to give me something pretty mild. You know, nothing hardcore. But whatever he gave me, like… holy fuck, it was amazing at first. Totally face-melting. But way intense. And then the last thing I remember before passing out was him looking at the container he'd been keeping them in and looking panicked. I think he gave me the wrong shit. Anyway, I was in his house when that happened, so I don't know how I got to the ditch that I was found in. He probably freaked out and threw me there in case I actually did die.”

“...He thought you were dead and threw you in a ditch?” Simmons said incredulously.

“It's fucked up, right? Anyway, whatever the paramedics did, it was some shit. Like, boom, super awake! Like I was taking my first huge breath ever. And then I threw up on the paramedic and it was super gross but they said it was okay. And now everything hurts, but I'm alive. So, Sister – 1, Asshole Dealer – 0.”

“How is this a win?”

“Because no death! What more do you want?”

“Well… the dealer being fucking arrested would be great?” Simmons suggested.

“But if I bring that up with the cops, they'll call me out on taking shit. I mean, the hospital has a 'don't tell the cops' rule, or something. Look, once I find my phone I'm gonna text my friends and tell them that guy's a shitty dealer, and word will spread. It was a fuck-up, anyway. I think he just mixed up his container thingies.”

Simmons raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything else. Grif hadn't said a thing since Sister finished the explanation. Sister glanced at him, then started fiddling with her fingers.

“Grif. It's fine. Really.”

Grif stayed silent a little longer, before abruptly getting to his feet.

“I… I need a smoke,” he mumbled, before leaving.

“Huh? Grif, what the hell?” Sister called after him. When she didn't get a reply, she let out a frustrated noise. “Great.”

“You want me to go after him?”

“I mean, I don't wanna look desperate for his attention or anything.” Sister rubbed one of her eyes, frowning. “What's up with him, anyway? It's not like he's the one stuck here.”

“Maybe he's… just a little freaked out, you know? You did almost die. And you know how Grif gets.”

“I know he's going to be twice the pain in the ass once we're back home. Ugh.”

“And maybe just… you being so casual about almost dying probably isn't helping. Like you're not taking it seriously?” Simmons suggested timidly, shifting his feet on the floor.

“What should I do, then? Freak out?” Sister snapped. “I know shit got real, alright? I am freaked out by the whole thing. I know I could have died. And yes, I am terrified. But sitting here going 'wah wah I could have died' doesn't help. That's just wasting time being sad, and if I've learned one thing here? It's that life is too short to be going 'wah wah I'm scared.' I could totally die tomorrow, but if I do I don't wanna waste time moping.”

Simmons considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“...Um, but seriously.” Sister looked at him sheepishly. “Could you go and get Grif? I mean, again, totally not desperate, but… the company would be nice. Make it sound like it was your idea so he doesn't think I care.”

Simmons snorted. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons found Grif leaning against a wall near the parking lot, a cigarette clutched in one hand as he stared into space.

“Hey, asshole. Sister wants you.”

Grif didn't respond. He just took another drag of his cigarette.

“Grif? Are you even listening to me?” When that got no response, Simmons moved closer before taking the spot next to Grif, despite how much he hated the smell of cigarettes.

They stood there quietly for a while. Simmons wouldn't have been surprised if Grif was ignoring him on purpose for his part in not telling him where Sister had gone. But he didn't get the sense that Grif was actively ignoring him.

“...Look, I know you're freaked out. But Sister's gotta be feeling much worse now. And I think you being there would help.”

Grif took one last drag on the cigarette before dropping it on the ground and crushing it with his shoe, rubbing it harder into the concrete than what was necessary. He pushed off the wall and took a few steps back towards the hospital, walking past Simmons. He stopped.

“...She nearly died, Simmons,” Grif said quietly. “She nearly died and if she had there wouldn't have been shit I could do about it. There isn't shit I can do now. What happens next time? Because you know there's going to be a fucking next time.”

“It was an accident.”

“And there's gonna be more accidents if she keeps fucking around like that. Simmons?” Grif turned around and looked at Simmons. His eyes were overly shiny, although tears weren't coming out properly. “I can't lose her. I just can't. What the fuck do I do?”

Simmons considered the question, then pointed at the hospital. “Go back inside. And do what big brothers are supposed to do.”

Grif looked at him a moment longer, then returned back inside.

Simmons waited until he was gone, then pulled out his phone. He opened Facebook and went right for Sister's page. He knew she used it quite frequently, and often plotted her outings on there. She was lucky Grif was too lazy to use social media for the most part.

He'd be able to find something there. Friends that went with her to the club that might know the dealer's name. If not them, then he could probably scrape up enough info to ask around at Club Errera. And if that didn't work… there were always other options.

He'd worked with far less before. One way or another, he'd figure out who the dealer was.

 

* * *

 

Neither Grif or Sister spoke much. Sister had gone back to contemplating the ceiling with a small frown, although occasionally she'd look at Grif as if to confirm he was still present. Grif just watched her silently, hands clasped together in his lap.

It took a long time for him to say anything.

“You've got mud in your hair.”

“Still?” Sister reached up to touch her hair, but groaned as she did so. “God, my arms are sore. But yeah, the docs didn't have time to get all the shit out of my hair. I'd do it myself, but… well.”

Grif considered it for a moment longer. “Do you have a hairbrush?”

“In my bag. He chucked most of my shit into the ditch with me. I either dropped my phone beforehand or he kept it. Docs put it over there.” She gestured at the corner, where her yellow, sequiny purse was. Grif got up and retrieved the hairbrush from it.

“Won't get the mud out, but… I mean, if you want me to—“

“I'm always up for looking as good as I can.” She grinned at him. Grif managed a weak smile back before pushing his seat a little closer. Sister shifted so she was sitting up a little more, so Grif could reach her hair easier.

A few strokes in, she said, “Reminds me of when we were kids.”

“Yeah.”

When they were children, their mother had always been out, even back then. When Sister was too young to easily brush her own hair, Grif had always brushed it for her, and tied it into twin plaits with little yellow bows at the end. Grif hadn't expected to ever brush her hair again, since Sister had long since figured out how to do it herself.

“...It's nice,” Sister said.

“Yeah.”

Grif tried to straighten out a bit of hair, mud aside, and for whatever reason that's about when everything decided to cave in on him. Abruptly, he wrapped one arm around Sister and pressed his face into her shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, Sis. Just… shit, don't freak me out like that again.”

Sister didn't answer. She just turned a little so she could wrap an arm around him and return the hug. After a few moments, Grif let go of her and continued brushing her hair.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they were told that Sister needed rest and that she'd probably be alright the next day to go home provided no more complications occurred, but that for now they'd have to go home. Grif protested, but the hospital staff was very stubborn.

This time, Grif drew the car home. He could barely get Simmons to look up from his phone. Simmons didn't even complain once about his reckless driving. When they got back, Simmons wandered into his room without looking up or saying a word.

Grif tried to sleep on the sofa, like he normally did, but he couldn't. He was restless. He felt jittery and afraid and he wanted to phone the hospital just to make sure nothing had changed in the half an hour they'd been away from it. And underneath the jitters and the fear was this hot, bubbly anger. And then under that more fear. Too many layers of bullshit going on in his stomach, like some horrible pie he'd never wanted to eat.

He sat up after a while, and his foot bumped something on the floor. He'd left his blindfold there. He looked down at it for a moment, then got up with a groan.

He definitely wasn't in the mood for sex right now. But what he did need was companionship. And he was sure some of that anger going on in his stomach was for Simmons, but that was overwhelmed by the need to not be alone.

“Simmons?” Grif didn't knock. He just opened the door. Simmons always told him not to do that, and if he was working at his computer he'd always switch the screen off the moment Grif walked in.

This time he didn't. He didn't even turn. Instead, he kept clicking through whatever he was looking at. Just looked like a bunch of text to Grif. He was wearing his carpal tunnel braces, which meant he was probably doing some serious work.

Grif watched him for a moment, then walked in and sprawled on the bed.

“'Hey, Simmons. Can I come in?' Sure, Grif. Thanks for asking,” Simmons muttered under his breath.

“You didn't get huffy, so I assumed it was fine.”

“Don't get used to it. Special circumstances.” Simmons glanced sideways at him. “Can't sleep? That's new.”

“I know. I just… ugh.” Grif flopped his arms above his head, glaring at the ceiling. “This fucking sucks, alright?”

“Mm.”

“And I'm just supposed to sit here and wait for Sister to get better. And meanwhile, the fucking asshole who nearly killed her is just waltzing around, probably selling his crap to other people. That's fucking bullshit.

“Sam.”

“What?”

“His name's Sam.”

“...And again. What? Oh, for fuck's sake, Sister didn't tell you that too, did she?”

“No.” Simmons finally turned away from his computer, fiddling with his carpal tunnel braces. He wore a smug grin. “I found his full name. Address. Phone number. Even got access to a shitload of texts and e-mails, up to and including the fact that he keeps up with a bunch of regular clients using his phone. A bunch of selfies, too.”

“...You're sure?”

Simmons gestured for Grif to come over to the computer. He opened an image. Emblazoned on the screen was a picture of Sister, half-undressed and grinning at the camera as she moved to remove her shirt. Grif immediately looked away.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry. But it's the shirt she was wearing last night when she snuck out. I could not be more sure.”

“...And you just dug all this up? Coincidentally?”

Simmons was silent. He put more of his focus into his carpal tunnel braces, still tweaking them. Grif looked at him, then at the screen, and it clicked.

“This isn't the first time you've done this?”

“...Try hundredth and maybe you'd be closer. All this shady computer shit? It's kind of my bread and butter,” Simmons said quietly. Grif rubbed the side of his face, thinking about Simmons' weird hours and his secrecy concerning his computer. His eyes narrowed.

“You're saying—“

“That you've been housing a criminal this entire time, yeah—“

“—that you really don't watch porn?”

“...That's your concern? Really?” Simmons said, his voice cracking. “I told you, I'm not into porn!”

“Bullshit, everyone's into porn.” Grif looked back at the computer. The picture of Sister was still up. Reaching over Simmons, he clicked the mouse and cycled through some previous shots until he came across a selfie of some white, brown-haired guy wearing shades. Generic-looking guy. But Grif wouldn't be forgetting that face.

And immediately, the anger that had been bubbling away quietly in his stomach, mostly submerged under fear, rose to the top.

Simmons swatted Grif's hand away from the mouse. “Hey, don't touch without asking.” He opened another file and said, “So, it looks like he'll be meeting this guy a couple of blocks from the club to deal something. I don't really get these drug names. But if we call the cops on him, he'll get arrested for sure. Justice will be served without having to involve Sis—Grif?”

Grif left the room and grabbed his car keys, before heading for the door. Simmons got up from his computer and hurried after him.

“Grif?” Simmons repeated uneasily. “This isn't calling the cops. What are you—“

“Like I'm letting him off that easily,” Grif growled.

“Oh god, this isn't some sort of vigilante justice thing, is it?”

“Come along or stay back, whichever you want. But that guy's gonna learn that he doesn't fuck with my sister.”

Simmons tossed his hands in the air with an annoyed noise, but followed anyway.

 

* * *

 

Grif parked near where the dealer, Sam, was meant to be and climbed out of the car, face set. He walked off, while Simmons continued talking about all the reasons why they really should turn back.

“I mean, he's a dealer. And he's shown a willingness to toss people in ditches. He could be a murderer. He could have a gun! He might have a bunch of guys who'll turn up at our apartment and kill us in our sleep. You could get charged with assault. I could get charged with helping you track down this guy. If we just placed an anonymous call—”

Grif ignored him as he turned into an alleyway, looking around. Simmons continued rattling off reasoning behind him, but quieted down as Grif turned a corner and stopped.

Sam was standing in the alleyway, trying to light a cigarette and failing. Unmistakable. He was even wearing the same shades, despite the fact that it was night.

Grif stopped. That look of set fury was still on his face. But Simmons took advantage of Grif stopping to try and get in front of him. The movement caught the eye of Sam, though. He turned, looking wary for a moment but then relaxing, presumably because they didn't look like cops.

“Yeah?”

“Um… ummm...”

Simmons looked back at Grif, clearly trying to think of a better excuse for being there than 'we're here to beat the shit out of you.'

“Uh… what's the four-one-one, daddy-o?” Simmons said, injecting as much confidence into his voice as possible. “Me and my homie here, just hangin' all up in here, and we heard that you were the go-to guy for blazing it. Four-twenty, dawg. You know what I'm saying, scrillas?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Grif whispered.

“I'm trying to be cool.”

“Right. So what the fuck are you doing?!”

Sam tilted his head, squinting. “...You cops?”

“What? No!”

“I think you're cops.”

Grif rolled his eyes and pushed Simmons aside, advancing on Sam. “You fucking wish, asshole.”

Sam looked at him for a moment, eyes lingering on Grif's build and colouring. On the distinctive nose that both he and Sister shared. Then he took a step back.

“I don't know nothing about what you're talking about,” he said. There was obvious panic in his voice.

“No? You don't remember throwing my sister in a ditch and leaving her to die?! You nearly killed her!”

“...Oh, she's not dead? Cool, I didn't want that shit on my conscience.” Sam lifted his hands. “Look, man, I didn't mean to do anything. I just panicked, alright? Really, if she didn't want the risk she shouldn't have been doing the drugs in the first place. It's not my fault she couldn't take it—”

He was interrupted by Grif punching him in the face, only prevented from falling over by the wall nearby.

“Fuck, dude, what the hell?!”

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Grif grabbed the front of Sam's shirt. “You're gonna wish you were the one left in a ditch once I'm done with you!”

He smashed his fist back into Sam's face. This time, he felt something crunch underneath his fist. He pulled it back for a third punch. Before he could attack again, Sam lashed out and kicked him straight in the balls.

“Ooh, shit,” Simmons muttered, as Grif stumbled backwards, covering the injured area with his hands. Simmons caught his arm to steady him, before looking back at Sam. The dealer now looked fucking pissed, almost as pissed as Grif did. “Look, he got out his aggression—“

“Like fuck I have!” Grif choked out, still doubled over.

“We can just… go, and get on with our lives,” Simmons said, internally still thinking about when the best time to call the cops on what Sam was doing would be.

Sam was holding his sunglasses now. That's what had been crunched under Grif's fist. He looked down at them, one of the lens having fallen out and the bridge all snapped out of shape. He frowned, before tossing them on the ground. “Asshole. Those were my good sunglasses.”

“Who wears sunglasses at night, anyway?” Grif shot back.

“I mean, I'd like to let you go. But it ain't that simple now. If word gets around that some lazy piece-of-shit older brother of one of my customers managed to smash my shit and didn't even get a bit of payback… they might start thinking they can take me. Mug me for my goods or whatever.”

He pulled a switchblade out of his pocket. The way he held it was casual. Easy. Like he knew how to use it. He gave Grif a grin.

“Nothing personal, though. I just got a reputation to uphold. Stay still, and I'll just cut you a bit.”

“Grif,” Simmons said uneasily, trying to pull Grif away from Sam.

“Fuck you,” Grif growled, pushing Simmons' hands away from him as he glared Sam down. “You think your stupid little knife scares me?”

Actually, it did. It totally did because, fuck, that's a fucking switchblade. But rational Grif had decided this was a good time to have a nap, and had been replaced by the angry child who used to chase boys that had the audacity to hold hands with or kiss his sister.

“Grifff,” Simmons said again, stepping backwards.

“Your sister was right. You are pretty dumb,” Sam said, before jumping forward. The blade only missed by a couple of inches as Grif dived to the side. He heard footsteps run away from him, and quickly looked to the side to see Simmons run away and disappear behind a corner.

Well, fuck.

He looked back in time to catch Sam's wrist, the blade just scraping his cheek and leaving a line of red behind it. But if there was one thing Grif had over Sam, it's that he had mass, and that tended to work out for him in fights. Tightening his hold on the wrist, Grif rammed his shoulder into Sam's chest to force him off.

“Gimme the fucking switchblade, asshole!”

“Fuck you!”

It was not a good fight. Grif would get the upper hand for a second, but then Sam would slam a fist into something delicate. Sam fought super dirty, and from the feel of things actually knew how to fight. The only saving grace was that he kept aiming just to corner Grif with the switchblade, at most trying to go for the face, rather than trying to stick Grif in the gut with it.

The fight went for maybe thirty seconds of flailing around before Sam slammed his elbow into Grif's chin so hard that Grif blacked out for a second. When he recovered he was on the ground. The switchblade against his throat.

“I gotta ask. What did you really think was going to happen?” Sam asked. He had his knee planted in Grif's gut, and was eyeing Grif with a mixture of anger, smugness and curiosity. “Did you think I was just gonna go 'well, that was fun' and let you walk with no scratches?”

Grif's eyes flickered slightly to the left, behind Sam, then went back to Sam. “No. I was thinking that my boyfriend was going to hit you from behind with a baseball bat.”

“Heh, yeah. ...What?”

Simmons, who had reappeared in the alleyway from behind while Sam was distracted, swung the baseball bat he was holding and hit Sam square in the back of the head. Sam crumpled to the floor, out cold.

“Night, Sam,” Grif said, climbing to his feet before prying the switchblade out of Sam's hands. “Fuck, that dude was an asshole.” He looked over at Simmons, who was still gripping the baseball bat and looking jittery. “...Jesus. Where'd you even find that?”

“Someone left it outside their door. Think I should return it?” Simmons turned the baseball around and saw the blood on the other side of it. He let out a hiss of breath and turned it back around. “Oh god, probably not.”

Grif looked down at Sam for a moment, face twisting in disgust, before he swung his foot and kicked the dude square in the stomach. “That's for cutting my face.” He swung his foot again, this time smashing his foot into the man's nose. “And that's for Sister. Prick.”

“I don't think he can hear you.” Simmons said. When Grif kicked him a third time, he raised a hand. “Seriously, Grif, stop! You're scaring me.”

“Dude, you're the one who just hit this dude with a baseball bat.”

“Yeah, that's because you were gonna get your stupid ass killed!” Simmons stared down, then prodded the man with the end of the baseball bat. No response.

After a moment of hesitation, Simmons kicked the man in the stomach.

“Oh, so you can kick him and I can't.”

“Well... he did hurt Sister.” Simmons took a step back. “...Fuck, we probably shouldn't hang around.”

“Yeah. Whatever, I got what I came for.” Grif considered Sam for a moment, then crouched over him and checked his jacket pockets.

“Grif, seriously?”

“Medical bills aren't cheap! And everyone knows dealers are loaded.” Grif pulled out the man's wallet. “Fuck, that's what I'm talking about.” He opened the wallet before retrieving a small wad of notes, reaching into his pocket for his own.

“Seriously, Grif, what if someone—“ Simmons cut off, listening. Faint footsteps could be heard on the path outside, getting closer. He grabbed Grif by the crook of his arm and pulled him away, slipping around the corner.

Not a couple of seconds later, the footsteps stopped. There was dead silence for a moment, followed by a whispered, “Fuck!” The footsteps started up again for a moment, heavier, before stopping again. “Fuck, Sam, you alright? ...Oh fuck.” There was another pause, before the unmistakable sound of the man going through Sam's pockets reached their ears.

Simmons looked at Grif before jerking his head away from the source of the noise. Grif nodded back, and they slipped away, walking quiet until they were further away before breaking out into a run back to the car.

Once they were in the car, Simmons flopped back into the passenger seat. He was still holding the baseball bat. He reached into the glove compartment and found some tissues, which he used to start wiping off the blood.

“Fuck. Just… fuck,” he muttered.

“Don't overreact, we're fine,” Grif said dismissively.

“Grif, we just probably hospitalized a dude.”

“Sure. Eye for an eye. He started it.”

“The cops won't see it that way! And what if they find out how I found him? Do you know how long I could go away for?”

“Look, it'll be fine. I've still got his wallet and the switchblade, I'm pretty sure that's the only part I got my blood on.”

“Look.” Simmons finished wiping off the baseball bat, before tossing it in the back. “Fuck it, here's the deal. We go home. And we never mention this to anyone ever again.”

“Deal. Worst comes to worst, I guess… I dunno, I'll tattle on his drug dealing if he tries charging me for assault. Take him down with me.”

“Sure.” Simmons breathed out slowly. “Fuck.”

“Worth it.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Not if we get caught, it's not."

 

* * *

 

**Tucker**

 

“Man, how can babies eat this crap?” Tucker muttered, staring into the half-eaten tin of baby food. Why did babies have to eat such messy food? And couldn't it at least be a nice flavor? Like pudding or something? Instead of… what was this? Turnips? Gross.

Tucker looked at the label of the jar he was holding to confirm that it was turnips before looking back at Junior. Junior clapped his hands happily. He was covered in turnip-flavored gloop. Tucker wasn't sure any of the food had gone in his mouth.

“You sick of turnips yet, Junior?”

Junior babbled at him in response.

“Can you say yes? Or no? Can you say Daddy? Dah-dee?”

Junior continued to gurgle.

“Guess you're still too young. Well, I'm not teaching you to say Mommy. That'd be weird.” Tucker scooped out a bit more food. “Now that I think about it, so is Daddy. I mean, I've met some girls who were all into that and… yeah, you know what? You can just call me Dad. Or Father, if I buy a pipe and a newspaper. You can even call me the Dadmeister. Can you say Dadmeister?”

Maybe it was his imagination, but Tucker swore that Junior gave him a 'are you kidding' look.

“Whatever, it's all good.” Tucker finished scraping out the spoonful of baby food. “Come on, I spent all my money on this crap. You need to eat it. Here comes the airplane. ...No? Spaceship? Here comes the UFO!”

He moved the food towards Junior, making little laser noises with his mouth. Junior giggled, waving his hand at the spoon before pushing it aside.

“Fuck. Uhh… hm. This stuff really that bad? I mean, most babies eat it, right?” Tucker put the jar aside, before going to retrieve a cloth to wipe Junior down with. “Well, can't say I blame you. But seriously, this stuff is expensive for such tiny jars.”

Tucker was running out of money. The problem with conning is it tended to be either feast or famine, and Tucker had never really needed to manage his money until Junior came along. He'd ended up skipping a meal or two beforehand, but now that he was a father he had to be responsible.

Being responsible? Super hard.

But what else could he do? Get a real job? Fuck that.

Tucker finished wiping baby food off Junior before picking up the jar and looking inside. Idly, he wondered how it actually tasted.

 

* * *

 

“Baby food tastes like feet,” Tucker told C.T as he plopped into his usual seat at the bar. He was still carrying Junior, who burbled happily at C.T.

“Did you try it?”

“I regret everything and the taste won't leave.”

“Genius.”

“Shut up.” Tucker sighed, watching C.T reach out and tickle Junior lightly, who giggled in response.

“Also, I've accepted that you're gonna keep bringing your kid here, but could you not put him on the counter? I just wiped it down. Smudging up the counter is a privilege reserved for people who actually buy drinks.”

“Junior's too young! And you saying I should get drunk while taking care of him?”

“I'm not saying that. Per se.”

“I can't afford drinks, anyway. I'm going through a dry spell. Money-wise, I mean. Not with the ladies.” Tucker grinned. “Chicks dig single fathers. Although if I let slip that the other parent was a dude, they immediately assume I'm gay. And what am I supposed to say? 'No, it was actually science?'”

C.T shrugged. “That's your problem. Apple juice?”

“What about 'no money' don't you get?”

“You can pay me back. I've got a job offer for you. Might help you out.”

“Oh, for real? Hit me.”

C.T poured out an apple juice, dropping a little pink umbrella into it before pushing it towards Tucker. “So, it's like this. I've got this scam set up. Me and the other C.T were going to do it, originally. Pose as business partners, go around getting people to invest in our imaginary company. It took a lot of work to set up all the necessities to make it look like this company exists at first glance.”

“So what's the problem?”

“The problem is that I won't have time. I've got a job coming up with someone else—I can't say who, but it's not one I can refuse—and it promises to be extensive. Might have to let Jones—“

“Joannes!” came a shout from the other end of the bar.

“Right, Joannes… I might have to let him run the bar for a bit while other C.T handles the shady part of my business.”

“Why can't this other guy do the job instead?”

“Because I'm better at it.” C.T shifted forward a little, leaning on the bar. “Look, he's got his talents. Some of them better than mine. He can do formal and business-like better than me. But he can't do charm. He can't pretend he likes people. And business talks need someone who can make them feel at ease, especially when you're trying to sell something that doesn't exist.”

Tucker shifted a little, squinting at her. “You think I'm that good?”

“I think you're fine when you're not aiming to get into someone's pants. Besides, Smith doesn't speak English. Joannes needs to run the bar. Jones is in prison again for one reason or another—guy can't stop getting caught—and who the fuck knows what happened to Gary. You can't do formal for shit, but people relax around you.”

“I mean, I just talk.”

“Sometimes that's enough.” C.T leaned back again, moving to shuffle some bottles around. “So, you'll do it? The percentage isn't huge—we have to pay off a lot of people here—but even so, you'll get enough to keep the diaper-filler going for months.”

“Hey!”

“What? He's not even a year old, tell me he can do something besides fill diapers.”

“That's not the point.”

“It's totally the point.”

“But yeah, I'll do it.” Tucker took a gulp of his apple juice before waving the glass at C.T. “Is there… some other name I can call him, though? I don't want to deal with another C.T.”

C.T frowned for a moment, thinking. “Well, when I first met him he used the nickname Pillman a lot. You could probably use that.”

“...Pillman? Is he a dealer or something?”

“No. Well… not right now. He does a lot of things. He might have been dealing when we first met. It's hard to remember. That was a while back.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh god, she sent you?”

Tucker glared back at Pillman, who was lounging in his doorway and staring at Tucker like he'd just stepped in dog shit. “Nice to see you too, asshole. Look, she said I was the best for the job.”

“But you're so… irritating.”

“We've met once!”

“And it was enough to know you're annoying.” Pillman sized him up for a moment longer before sighing. “I guess you'll have to do. If Connie says you're good enough, then—“

“Who's Connie?”

“...Seriously? C.T? The C.T that's not me?”

“Her name's Connie? Aw, dude! I'm giving her so much shit next time I see her,” Tucker said, grinning.

“Yeeeeah, reminder. I can kick your ass. And so can she. She's small, but she's good with knives.”

“Oh, yeah.” Tucker had seen C.T play with a knife before. She was terrifying with it, and that had just been messing around. “...I take it back?”

“Damn right you do.” Pillman jerked his head towards the inside of the house. “Let's get this over with.”

Tucker followed Pillman into the house. Although the house was mostly tidy, there was a large amount of paint splatters stained into the walls and floor, as well as a few full-on paintings of what Tucker assumed to be fish, although they were so messy it was hard to tell.

“So, what I'm going to need from you… well, that's going to be a lot,” Pillman said as they entered the kitchen. “We'll cover the aesthetic stuff first. Measurements for a suit. ID photos. We'll probably have to figure out how to flatten your hair into something more business-ey.”

“Aw, dude,” Tucker grumbled, touching his hair.

“Business has expected standards, alright? I have to shave my mohawk, too. Not about what we think, it's about what they think. The important thing is that at the end of this, we will have money. Lots of money. Admittedly, a lot of it has to go into paying off a lot of people, the point is we'll be very slightly richer.”

“You're making this job sound great. Sarcasm, by the way.”

“I got that. Anyway, aside from that… well, we need to go over the itinerary that me and Connie had set up. We cannot afford to be late at any of the appointments that get set up. We should also rehearse so that we know—“ Pillman's eyes flickered slightly to Tucker's left, and he frowned. “Terrence, no.”

Tucker turned. There was a small boy in a shark hoodie, hands reaching out stealthily to grab Tucker's arm. Upon Tucker looking at him, he withdrew his hands and stuck them into his pockets, squinting up at Tucker like he was calculating whether he could take him in a fight.

“Over here,” Pillman sighed. The kid, Terrence, gave Tucker a look before shuffling over to Pillman. Pillman crossed his arms and looked down at him. “What did I tell you about sneaking up on and trying to bite people?”

“He was gonna bite me?” Tucker asked.

Terrence shifted on his feet, pouting. With the dull, annoyed air of someone who'd repeated these words to the point of memorization he said, “Sharks rarely eat people and I'm perpetuating a negative stereotype.”

“Exactly. No biting guests. Bite tuna.”

“Tuna tastes bad. And it's not badass to bite tuna,” Terrence complained.

“If you want to eat people you'd have better luck being a polar bear or a tiger. Maybe a hyena?”

“But they aren't sharks.”

“Can't have it all, buddy. Do you want tuna or do you want to be a tiger?”

“...Tuna.” Terrence, looking noticeably offput, opened the fridge and started rummaging around inside it. Pillman turned back to Tucker.

“Anyway, we should practice some scenarios just to figure out how our styles mesh. I don't want to be noticing any bad techniques as they happen.”

“Uh...” Tucker looked at Terrence, who'd found a half-eaten can of tuna and was now shuffling over to the bread bin. “You sure we should be talking about this in front of the kid?”

“I'm not a kid. I'm ten,” Terrence muttered.

Tucker raised an eyebrow at him, having guessed that Terrence was around seven, tops.

“He can keep a secret. Can't you?” Pillman asked. Terrence looked back at him and gave a very solemn thumbs up. “There, see?”

“...Okay?”

Pillman eyed Tucker, looking him up and down, before saying, “You might also need platform boots. You're kind of small to be a businessman.”

“I hate you.”

 

* * *

 

This con essentially amounted to 10% 'meetings with important people under the guise of important businessmen who needed the money to start a legitimate venture' and 90% 'sitting in either cars or motel rooms shouting at each other.'

The 10% was fine. The road trip portion… not so much.

“I can't fucking believe you.”

“What?!”

Pillman glared at him before returning his eyes to the road. “That was awful.”

“We got the money, didn't we?”

“No thanks to you!”

“What is your problem?!”

“What's my problem? Maybe the attempted flirting with every woman you passed in that bank? That's like wearing a giant sign on your forehead that says 'hey, remember our faces.'”

“Look, maybe I was hoping I could use this whole 'important businessman' persona to get laid.”

“You're a tool.”

“No, you're a tool.”

“Great comeback, asshole.”

Tucker sulked, sinking deeper into the carseat. “You're just bitter because you can't use the persona for flirting.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, hence why you can't.”

Worst. Con. Ever.

 

* * *

 

The con was set to span weeks. Tucker realised by the end of the third day that he missed Junior.

He'd been apart from Junior for longer, of course. He was generally the weekend dad, although sometimes he'd take care of Junior for a week or two. But he'd always known Junior wasn't far away, and that if he really wanted to visit it was only a bus ride away.

“Will you just call him or something so I don't have to hear you whine about your kid?” Pillman muttered, hunched over the wheel as he stared at the road. It was nighttime now. They should have been at the next motel by now, but they were running an hour late. Both of them claimed it was the other's fault.

“I don't think Crunchbite would even understand what I was saying if I called and asked to talk to him. Also he's like six months old, what am I gonna say? Put him on the phone so I can hear him burble? He's got shit to do. Like sleep and eat.”

“What a timetable.”

“I know, right?”

“Just wait. Soon enough he'll be filling out his time with much more energetic activities. Like trying to bite his classmates and spray-painting the school.” Pillman let out a little huff. “Spray-painting the school. God, Terrence is such a rebellious cliché.”

“Hey, don't assume what my kid is gonna be like based on your weird little cannibal.”

“I'm talking him out of biting people, alright? What more do you want from me?” Pillman squinted a little at the road. “Besides. It's not cannibalism for sharks. At least he's between nicknames.”

“Nicknames?”

“He keeps picking out shark-related nicknames and not answering to any name but them. He's back to Terrence because last month he was Jaws but then decided it was too 'mainstream.' Fuck if I know where he picked up that word from.”

Despite his complaining, the expression on Pillman's face was fond, if a little exasperated. Tucker snorted.

“Whatever, man. How come you get to complain about kid stuff and I don't?”

“Because I don't like you.”

“Asshole.”

“Besides, you've got another parent to deal with stuff—“

“Yeah, one I can't understand!”

“And all he needs is food and diapers and baby stuff. Just wait until you get to, y'know, schooling and extra-curricular shit and medical bills from your kid thinking it was totally okay to eat a random sea crustacean he found at the beach—“

“Again, I think that's just your weird kid.”

“And don't even get me started on college preparation. Jesus.”

Tucker was starting to realise that there was a lot of expensive stuff about having a kid that he had not considered, and that he had absolutely no plans to deal with future expenses. Fuck, had he not thought about college. Or all the stuff Junior would later need. He could ask Crunchbite, but he still wasn't sure the guy understood English.

He sunk into the carseat cushion, gazing at the streetlights zooming past them as he delved deeper into these new, worrying thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Despite the numerous arguments and bumps they suffered, turned out that Pillman and Tucker could do the business stuff just fine. Anything that Tucker forgot, business-wise, Pillman filled out for him. Dude did know how to do the professional shit, Tucker had to give him that. Bulldozed through a bunch of sticky situations with full-on fake authority. Then when fake authority wasn't enough, Tucker provided the distractions with charm and all that charisma shit.

Hawke & Hartford Co. would have been baller if it had actually existed and if they didn't hate each other's guts. And after this long road trip, Tucker would be so happy to never see Pillman again.

They'd raked in a shitload. Tucker didn't quite know how much. He suspected Pillman didn't, either. It had been a lot to keep track of. All he knew was that it was possibly skimming a hundred thousand. And also that, given the amount of people they had to pay off, he maybe got a ten thousand dollar cut of it.

Which, don't get him wrong, was pretty good. He was pretty sure Pillman got a much higher cut, despite Pillman's attempts to be vague on the percentage.

“You get more, don't you?”

“Yeah, probably. Look, we got people to pay off. And me and Connie set up the scam. We get a bigger cut. That's how it fucking works. Deal.”

“Alright, alright. Jeez.”

Traveling all the way back was quiet. Lots of time for Tucker to think. Lots of time for him to panic about future expenses. Just this ten thousand would last for a while, but if conning didn't go well he'd be empty-handed again. And what if Junior did stupid shit and ended up in hospital? Maybe he should try and talk to Crunchbite about all this.

Maybe he wouldn't have panicked so much if he didn't have so much time.

They stopped at a motel on the way back for the night, taking it easier now that they weren't on a deadline. They got one room—separate beds, thank christ—and Pillman, tired from so much time on the road, clocked the fuck out the moment he flopped down on the bed.

Tucker had spent a lot of the drive sleeping, and so he flopped on his own bed and stared at the cheap television for a while. He watched without really listening for a while. Pillman was deep in his sleep, and didn't move. Tucker glanced over and turned up the volume a bit higher than necessary. Nothing. He casually swung his foot into the wall, seeing if he twitched at the 'clonk' sound. Maybe a slight twitch, but nothing more.

Tucker made up his mind. Slipping over to where Pillman had put his bag, he managed to locate the car keys and the key to the cash lockbox easily. He slipped out of the room and headed out into the lobby, passing through with the casual air of someone just going out to do something legal.

He headed for the car, and once he got there he unlocked the backseat and climbed in, having a look to make sure no-one else was around. Once he did, he fiddled around with the backseat. The seat on the right was not as attached as it looked, and Tucker lifted it to see the metal box hidden inside. Made to dissuade car thieves, even if it wouldn't hold up on a close check.

Tucker paused upon reaching for the box.

C.T trusted him to do this right. Was he going to let her down? That was what the small, more ethical part of Tucker said.

But the rest—the part that had dominated basically everything he did since childhood—reasoned that he'd helped earn most of this money anyway. That it wasn't as if he was stealing it for selfish reasons. It was for Junior. That they wouldn't even notice, and that stealing from thieves wasn't any worse of a crime than conning the money to start with.

Excuses, sure. But enough for Tucker to open the box. Funny how one hundred thousand-ish money didn't look like as much as it did in the movies.

He didn't steal much. At least, it didn't feel like much. A few notes from each bundle of money, betting that Pillman had counted by each place they stole rather than calculating the exact amount. He pilfered maybe three thousand. It was the most he was willing to risk.

He expected Pillman to be standing there on the other side of the door, fully aware of what he'd done, the moment he got back. But he wasn't. He was just there. Sleeping, still in the same position as when Tucker had left. Tucker slipped the money into his own bag.

Not much. But a start towards whatever Junior might need in the future.

The whole way back, he expected Pillman to say something. He never did. Even when they got back, and Tucker got his proper share of the money. Even when weeks went by, and C.T got back from her mysterious business and grinned at him, unusually appreciative.

He grinned back, squashing the guilt he felt for that moment.

 

* * *

 

**Caboose**

 

“Sheeeeeeeeeeeeilaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Caboose yelled out, cupping his hands over his mouth to amplify the sound.

“Sir, this is a hospital! Please stop yelling!”

“Okay. ...Have you seen Sheila?”

“Sheila who?”

“...She is a doctor.”

“What kind of doctor? ...Sir, do you have any sort of medical issue?”

“No. I am looking for Sheila.”

Caboose was kicked out fairly quickly. It was the fifth hospital he'd been kicked out of since he started his search for Sheila.

He'd thought it would be easy to find her. She'd be at the hospital. The problem was… well, he couldn't remember the name of the hospital. He'd never really had to know.

He'd gotten lifts from people by standing next to the road and sticking his thumb out, like he'd seen in the movies. The first man who'd picked him up was weird. Had a long beard and smelt like one of Caboose's weirder cousins, Wade. He'd gotten lifts from a couple of other people. One of them had been normal. The other had… set off sort of a bad alarm in Caboose's head. He didn't know why. Something about the way the driver talked. So Caboose had got out while the car was still moving and run off. He'd tried after that, but he'd started to smell funny after a few days with no showers so people wouldn't let him in their cars anymore.

He had found many hospitals, but he hadn't found Sheila. Not the right Sheila. He'd found a different Dr. Sheila at one point, but she had been older and meaner and accused him of being a hobo stalker.

He wasn't even sure he was in the right city.

Caboose wandered off down the street, trying to look for anything that seemed familiar. All his search had done was get him more hopelessly lost than before. His eyes hurt, because it was very hard to sleep on the ground. His stomach alternated between growling and doing a weird bubbly thing because good food was hard to get and he'd had to eat out of the trash a couple of times.

He was kind of scared. Every thing he did seemed to get him further away from anywhere good.

His stomach made a particularly potent gurgling sound, so he wandered off in search of some food.

He wanted to go back home. He wanted Mama. But she had told him to stay out of the way, and now he could not be any more out of the way. He might have gone home anyway, but he didn't know the way back.

He wasn't sure how long it had been. The sun had gone down a lot. A week? Maybe two? The sun was going down now. As he walked through the streets, the people that passed him giving him a wide berth, all these neon signs started to light up. Lots of letters. Lots of shapes that reminded him of the sorts of places his father liked.

Even seeing his dad would be preferable to being as lost as he was.

Caboose veered off from the main path into an alleyway. He would find a dumpster. And maybe someone would have left food in it. He'd tried asking for food, but people always gave him disgusted looks and told him to go away.

There was a dumpster. Caboose pushed the lid up, sticking his other hand inside to rifle around inside. It was not a good dumpster. It was mostly trash. Not the edible kind. Just empty glass bottles.

As Caboose pushed aside some bits of crushed glass, trying to see if maybe there was food hiding underneath, a door leading into one of the nearby buildings opened, and a man stepped out. He was holding another bag of bottles.

“Hey! Get outta there, asshole!”

Caboose let go of the lid immediately, the loud clank it made as it dropped making him wince. The man holding the bag of bottles glared at him for a moment, his expression of anger and annoyance quickly melding into a milder frown.

“...Holy fuck, you're huge.” He looked Caboose up and down. “A lot more muscle on you than the hobos in these parts.”

“I am not a hobo. I am just lost,” Caboose said.

“...Right.” He glanced at the dumpster. “If you're lookin' for food, all we sell here are alcohol and peanuts.”

“I like peanuts.”

“Well, there ain't many in there.” After another long moment, the man gestured for Caboose to come a little closer. “Over here. Turn around.”

Caboose wasn't exactly sure what was going on. He wasn't getting a… bad feeling from this man, exactly. Not like the weird driver. But something was still a little off. He approached and turned around, and the man studied him.

“...How old are you?”

“I… am eighteen?” Caboose wasn't really sure. Sometimes he lost track.

“And you got no job?”

“No. I am just lost.”

“Hrm...” The man mulled things over for a moment, then said, “Stay there. I need to get the manager.”

He closed the door, leaving Caboose to stand around in the dark alleyway for a while. Caboose bounced on his feet and fiddled with his fingers, wondering if this man would know the location of any other hospitals.

Eventually, the door opened. A different man, with nicer clothes, appeared.

“...Huh. You weren't kidding. He is huge.”

“Hello,” Caboose said.

“Yeah, hi. Listen, hobo.”

“I am not a hobo.”

“Don't care. You ever done bouncing work before?”

“...No. I am not a bouncing ball.”

“Are you an idiot?”

Caboose frowned, giving the manager a glare, and he stepped back.

“Jesus, what a pair of eyes. Look, I'm asking you if you've ever been a bouncer. Y'know, a bouncer? Stand at the door, throw out people who cause trouble?”

“I have not done that.”

“You think you'd be up for it? Because our bouncer quit, and we don't got anyone else. And you seem kinda dim, but if you just stand there you'll probably stop most of the troublemakers. Because, seriously. Huge.”

“But if I work I will not have time to look for Sheila,” Caboose said.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“She is a nice doctor. She works at a hospital.”

“You can't look her up in the phone book?”

“I cannot read.”

The manager exchanged looks with the man who'd been throwing out garbage, before looking back at Caboose. “Look, I don't know shit about that doctor girl. But what I do know is I'm offering you a job and you should fucking take it, alright? You can look for her in your spare time.”

Caboose didn't want to stop the search. On the other hand… jobs meant money, and money meant food that didn't come out of trash cans. Maybe even somewhere softer to sleep. Then he would be refreshed and he would be able to find Sheila.

“Will I be able to live somewhere softer?”

“Probably?”

“...Okay.”

“Great. Just, uh...” The manager waved his hand at Caboose. “Gimme your size and take a shower, for fuck's sake. You'll scare away the customers if you smell like that.” When Caboose gave him a blank look, the manager sighed and turned to the other one. “Get one of the girls to help him with it.”

“No problem.”

The manager headed back inside, muttering under his breath about something, while the other man gestured for Caboose to enter the building.

“My cousin works here. She's the real maternal sort, so she'll probably be all about helping you.”

“She sounds nice.”

“Mmhm.” He knocked on a door, and after a moment a pretty blonde woman appeared. She wore a lot of glitter and not much else. Caboose was very careful to look as far upwards as possible. “Hey, cuz. We've got a bouncer, but he smells like shit. You think he can use the shower?”

“Hmm.” The woman looked at him. Her eyes lingered on Caboose in a way that made him feel a little uncomfortable, but then she smiled. “Sure. All the others are working, anyway.”

“Great. You.” The man pointed at Caboose. “Clean up. Give me your size.”

“...I am big.”

“Jesus Christ.” He looked at the pretty lady. “You get his size for me.” The lady gave him a little mock salute, and the man left.

Caboose glanced down for a moment again, frowning. “It is a cold night. Do you need a sweater? You can have mine. It has a kitten on it.”

“That's sweet, but I hardly make a good stripper if I'm wearing a sweater.”

“...Stripper?”

Caboose suddenly wished he'd paid more attention the neon sign out the front.

 

* * *

 

Alright. So Caboose really didn't want to work at a strip club. Quite frankly, he hated strip clubs. Too many reminders of his dad. Too much brightness and no-pants time was never at the right time. But he also didn't want to eat out of trash cans. So he stayed.

It turned out he was a very good bouncer. It was an easy job. If someone was mean, Caboose would make them leave. That was it.

He slept on a bench nearby for the next week, but then the pretty blonde stripper—who he could not remember the name of because the strippers did not use their real names and her stage name was long and complicated—helped him find a house.

Well, more of a basement. It was attached to the house of a woman who looked a hundred years old, but he could enter it from the outside and as long as he gave the woman money sometimes he was allowed to stay in the basement.

Caboose still wanted to find Sheila. But he just didn't know how. And now that he had a job he was much more busy and much more tired, but tired in the good way rather than the bad way. He wasn't hungry anymore. Sometimes he still had to skip mealtimes, because food was expensive, but he had enough.

He wasn't scared anymore. He was not hurting anyone. He was not causing problems for Mama. Maybe he didn't even need to find Sheila.

The only time he was scared was at night.

There was a closet inside his new home. And at night, Caboose thought it was making noises. Angry, creaking noises. Caboose was positive there was something in there. A boogeyman, maybe. A mean, scary monster who was going to eat him when he was asleep. And sure, Caboose was big. But that just made him more filling.

On the first night in that basement, Caboose curled up on his bed and stared at the closet. The bed was clearly meant for a child. Caboose's limbs dangled off it if he didn't curl up.

The boogeyman probably ate the last kid who used this bed. Maybe that was why the old lady upstairs let people stay down here. To feed the boogeyman and stop it from going upstairs and eating her.

Caboose rocked back and forth. His eyelids kept drooping shut. But he'd force them open again.

When he thought he heard the boogeyman at home, Mama would open the closet and chase it away. The boogeyman would not hurt Mama. But Mama wasn't here.

He nodded off for a moment, then heard another long creaky noise and jumped off the bed.

He was going to die.

He started to walk back and forth, trying to think of a way to stay awake. The basement was just one room, apart from the little toilet. Bed on one side, little kitchen within walking distance. He could see the knife he'd used earlier to make a sandwich. He'd cut himself with it. It'd hurt. Maybe it would hurt the boogeyman.

Caboose picked it up gingerly before edging back towards the closet. He stood there for a few moments, listening for any noses, before pulling open the door and stabbing the knife at whatever was in the closet with a frightened yelp.

There was nothing there at all.

Caboose frowned and checked behind his kitty jumper, which was hanging at the front, before closing the door carefully and going back to his bed.

From that night on, Caboose always slept with the knife under his pillow, and every night he would open that door and stab the knife inside, trying to get rid of the boogeyman he was sure was hiding there.

It was at night that he wished most strongly that Mama or Sheila or someone… anyone… was there, so he wouldn't have to be scared any more.

 

* * *

 

Four months went by. Caboose visited a few more hospitals, but still couldn't find Sheila. He might have visited some of the same hospitals as he did before. He couldn't tell. They all looked the same to him. But eventually he stopped trying, and resigned himself to this new life.

Caboose, as usual, did his best not to look at any of the dancers. He was used to the bright lights and music by now, but he was much more comfortable looking anywhere less glittery. The bartender—the man who'd been throwing out trash and who'd recruited Caboose—rolled his eyes.

“They're getting paid to be ogled, y'know. You don't have to stare at your feet.”

“I do not want to look.”

“What are you, gay?”

“No. I am not very happy at the moment. I am very uncomfortable.”

“I meant—ah, nevermind.” He glanced around, then nodded his head at one of the tables. “Well, better keep your eyes up. Looks like that guy's getting rowdy. Hope we don't have to kick out the entire bachelor party. They're paying pretty well for drinks.”

Caboose headed towards where the commotion was. Most of the men around there looked pretty happy. They were all chattering in a language that Caboose didn't understand. Spaniel? Might have been called Spaniel.

One of the men did not look happy. He looked bored and frustrated. He was trying to pull his friend, the rowdy one, away from the table.

“ _You look like an idiot._ ”

“ _Loosen up, Lopez! Jeez! Your damn party, isn't it? Have some fun!_ ”

“ _I wanted to watch car races. You're the ones who dragged me here._ ”

Caboose poked the rowdy one. “Hello. You are making a lot of noise and you have to stop.”

“ _Booo!_ ”

“That is more noise. You are going to leave now.”

“ _I ain't doing shit._ ”

“ _Why must you be this way?_ ” the grumpy man muttered.

“Um, I didn't understand that so...” Caboose reached forward and picked up the rowdy man before carrying him towards the door.

“ _Huh? Hey! Put me down!_ ” The man squirmed ineffectually. Meanwhile, another one of the party started laughing and took a screenshot on his phone.

The bachelor party left soon after. The grumpy man seemed very happy about it.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Lopez's phone started beeping while he was watching television. Lopez scowled, shifting a little—trying not to bump Sheila too much, who was leaning on him while reading a medical journal about a brain disease that Lopez didn't understand—to reach it.

After finding the phone and switching it on, he immediately let out an annoyed sigh.

“ _Something wrong?_ ” Sheila asked.

“ _Nothing out of the ordinary. My friends are morons, and I didn't need this photo._ ” The picture in question was that of a stripper's backside, which took up most of the screen, but in the background he could see his friend being carried away by the bouncer. “ _...The composition is actually quite good, in a terrible way._ ”

Sheila peeked over. “ _Fun time?_ ”

“ _No. Not at all._ ”

“ _You can say yes, Lopez. It's a bachelor party. As long as you didn't go for a brothel._ ”

“ _They tried,_ ” Lopez said glumly.

Sheila looked at the photo again, then frowned. “ _...Can I borrow that?_ ”

“ _It's not that fascinating, is it?_ ”

“ _Please?_ ”

Lopez shrugged, handing the phone over. Sheila stared at the bouncer in the photo, eyes narrowed.

“ _...The bouncer in this picture. Did you hear him say anything?_ ”

“ _A couple of sentences. Mostly telling him not to make noise._ ”

“ _Sort of a slow voice? Possibly one that gets loud at odd points?_ ”

“ _It was hard to tell in two sentences, but… slow, yes._ ”

Sheila stared at the photo for a couple more moments, then shook her head. “ _Caboose, what are you doing?_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“ _Nothing, Lopez. ...Would you mind telling me where this club was?_ ”

 

* * *

 

**Donut**

 

Sometimes, Donut went out with friends. Sometimes, those friends bought alcohol for him—one more year and he could do that himself—and they all got drunk. Being drunk only increased Donut's tendency for chatter and hugging.

“Maaaaaaine! I'm back!”

Smelling rather strongly of something with a lot of pineapple in it, Donut happily stumbled into the apartment. Upon not immediately seeing his roommate, he went clunking around the house looking for him. This eventually culminated in him thumping his fist on Maine's bedroom door, having figured out he was there through the process of elimination.

“Maaaaine! I'm bored and sleepy and you make the best pillow!” he said loudly, before opening the door. Spotting Maine sitting on his bed while reading a book, Donut immediately flopped onto the bed as well. “Hi!”

Maine let out a little grunt, mostly ignoring Donut despite the fact that Donut was currently climbing around on him.

“Maine, Maine, Maine, I had… like… the best time. You should come with me next time. I bet you'd be a huge hit. You've got, y'know… the muscle. And I'm sure there's someone who loves that shaved head look.” Donut tried rubbing his head on Maine's scalp, only to have his hand batted away.

After this, he flopped back down on Maine, his limbs tangled in Maine's sheets somehow, before gazing around.

“Y'know… I've never been in your room before! I mean, I have. Because this is my apartment and I've had other roommates. But it wasn't your room back then. It was 'room of the guy who hates lace for some reason.'”

Maine let out a huffy sigh before pushing Donut off him. Donut rolled off the bed and onto the floor, taking the majority of the sheets with him.

“Ow. Rude.”

Another huff, though shorter. It might have been a small laugh.

“I'm sleeping here now. It's not as warm, though.”

Maine settled back on his pillows, returning to the book he was reading and pointedly ignoring Donut. Donut rolled around, trying to untangle himself, before eventually rearranging the sheets into a toga-esque fashion.

“Maine.”

No response.

“Maine. Maine. My 'maine' man.”

That got Donut a look that quite clearly said 'wow, I've never heard that one before.' Donut, having now successfully attracted Maine's attention, raised an arm out of the mass of sheets to point to a small collection of photos sitting on one of Maine's shelves.

“Why're my cupcake tops up there?”

Maine looked up at the collection of photos, and the little pile of cupcake tops sitting in front of the photo of a slimmer bald man with light brown—almost orange—eyes. His expression went from annoyed to mildly sheepish.

“...You're gonna attract ants,” Donut complained, trying to get to his feet. He managed to, for one brief moment, before stumbling and flopping back onto the bed.

It took two more tries for him to reach the photograph. He stared at it for a moment, squinting like he was trying to bring it into focus, then looked back at Maine.

“This your… brother, or something?” At the affronted noise Maine made, Donut added, “Listen, you're both bald. All bald people look the same.” Another noise, this time more sarcastic. “No, it's not racist. Hair-ist, sure, but not racist. Fine, then. Friend?”

Maine raised a hand and wiggled it slightly, frowning.

“Kind of? You want to invite him around or something?”

Maine was silent. Okay, Maine was always silent. But he was especially silent.

“Not on good terms?”

Maine looked down, then raised a hand and made a cutting motion across his throat.

“Oh. He's…? ...Oh.” Even drunk, Donut had the common decency to feel a little awkward. “Sorry.”

Maine shrugged, looking back down at his book. Donut flopped back onto his bed, resting against Maine's legs.

“You miss him? Did he like cupcakes?”

Maine shook his head.

“Just frosting?”

Maine wiggled his hand.

“...We really should find a notepad and pen or something.”

Maine shrugged again.

Donut curled up a little. The bundle of sheets was warm, and he felt a little sleepy. “Don't think I've lost anyone before. I mean… well, okay, parents. But I don't remember them that well. I know my mother smelt like peppermints and that's about all I remember. Only know I was in the accident because the caretakers told me. Weird, huh?”

Maine grunted.

“Just trying to find some common ground.”

Maine gave him a skeptical look.

“I dunno, man, I'm drunk.”

Maine rolled his eyes before pointing in the direction of Donut's room.

“But it's warm here!”

Maine put down his book and pulled his legs out from underneath Donut. He climbed to his feet before picking up Donut, sheet bundle and all, as if he weighed nothing.

“Maine, nooooooo.”

Maine made a noise. Even drunk and with no words, Donut was pretty sure it translated out to 'Maine, yes.' Maine carried the halfheartedly flailing Donut to his room, pushing the door open with his foot before tossing Donut on the bed. Despite some mild protest, he managed to toss a blanket on Donut as well.

“So rude,” Donut muttered. Maine let out an amused, if exasperated, huff before leaving. Donut nodded off almost immediately.


	15. Chapter Eleven: Truths and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sarge and Flowers give the inmates a little talk, Miller plots and Donut gets sick of everyone's shit and decides to clear up some misunderstandings.

After breakfast, the inmates were barred from leaving the cafeteria immediately.

"What's going on?" Church mumbled, having not quite woken up yet. He'd spent most of breakfast with his face resting on the table, sleeping.

"I dunno, man. I think Sarge and Cappy are gonna talk to us or something," Tucker said. "Cappy's smiling in that 'motivational speech' kind of way."

"Goddammit."

"Alright! Listen up, ladies!" Sarge yelled out. Once he'd gotten most of the inmates to pay attention, he kept talking. "In a couple of weeks from now, a prison inspection will be carried out. And I want the place in tip top shape, got it? Now I know you're all the scum of human society... especially you, Grif!"

"Thanks for the honorable mention," Grif muttered.

"But that don't mean you got a free pass on being ass-munches during this inspection. Anyone who does anything deemed inappropriate during the next couple of weeks is gonna get sent straight to the chair!"

"The death penalty is illegal, Sarge," Flowers said.

"Straight to the chair!" Sarge repeated, this time with extra determination.

"You'll be locked up for longer, at the very least," Flowers said. "And I know none of you want that, men. It's very bad for your morale."

"One more thing. If any of you maggots are planning on trying to escape during the inspection… I'm warning you, anyone caught somehow joy-riding Vic's car again will not be tolerated."

"And if you try to escape the good old fashioned way, namely by trying to be sneaky and running for it..." Flowers started. "Well, I'll be keeping a special eye out, and I will be armed. And the only thing I will miss is having you around." He smiled at them. Same friendly smile, although there was just a hint of steel there. Just enough to remind you that he was captain of the guard for a reason. "Are we clear, gentlemen?"

There was some grunts in reply. Flowers seemed to take that as a yes.

"Excellent. Well, I'm sure you're eager to get working. Off you go.”

 

* * *

 

"Pancake!"

Donut automatically flinched when the door was flung open, although he relaxed a little when he saw it was just Caboose.

"Caboose, aren't you supposed to be working?" York pointed out. "It's not lunchtime yet."

"Oh. Well, I accidentally hurt Tucker. It was his fault. He got in the way of my elbow. He is okay, though. But I am not allowed in the laundry room for a little while. They do not like me being there, anyway. I am not allowed near irons. Can I stay and watch Fairy Bread?"

"I assume you mean Donut. Sure, I think he could use someone here. Actually, this means I can go down and grab some food, so I don't have to leave when all the inmates are wandering around. Donut, are you okay with me leaving you with Caboose? If not, I'll find another time to go grab some food."

"No. It's okay," Donut said quietly.

"Okay. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Once York was gone, Caboose sat down next to Donut's cot.

"Swiss Roll?"

"Yeah?"

"The Tucker elbow thing was not a complete accident. They do not need protecting in the laundry room, and Tucker was being a meanieface. So now I can stay here with you when everyone is working! That is good, right?"

"Yeah... it's good. I mean, you're a bit late, but I appreciate the thought…"

"Late? Late for what?"

"Uhhh..." Donut shook his head. "Nothing. Just forget I said anything."

"Molasses?"

"It's nothing. I was thinking about something else, I didn't mean to…"

"Did something happen?"

"No, nothing happened."

Caboose frowned. "Yes it did. You look scared. Something happened. What happened?"

"It was... O'Malley came in here. And he... he was a bit scary, but…"

"O'Malley? He did things? ...What did he do?”

"I'm fine. It only hurt a little, and that's because he sat on my bandages. He didn't get a chance to hurt me properly. I'm fine, really."

Caboose tilted his head, squinting at Donut. "You are not saying something. You are not okay."

"No, I'm... I'm fine, really..." Donut tried to smile. He didn't want Caboose to worry about him. It wasn't like anything had really happened, he'd gotten O'Malley a lot better than O'Malley had gotten him. But... the smile was so hard to keep up.

"Strawberry Pie?"

Donut tried smiling for a few more seconds, even though it was doing its best to try and crumble. "It's fine, it's not like he actually managed... anything... he didn't... I'm... It's..." His eyes were watery. But he wasn't going to cry, that wouldn't help anything, that'd just worry him…

Caboose put a hand on his back, being careful not to poke any bandages. "...You can cry if you want to, Donut."

That did it. Getting permission to cry removed the little remaining resistance Donut was putting up. There was a few more seconds in which Donut tried to maintain his smile. But it crumbled, and so did Donut's composure. He buried his face in Caboose's jacket and started sobbing.

Over the next few minutes, he was barely comprehensible. He wasn't sure if Caboose understood what he was trying to say, but he told Caboose what had happened anyway. About O'Malley shoving his tongue down Donut's throat. About how Donut had bitten part of it off to stop O'Malley going further. About how Wash thought he was something he wasn't. About how he was scared. About how he wanted to go home. After a while he just degraded entirely into nothing but the crying.

Caboose didn't try saying anything. He just wrapped his arms around Donut and rubbed his back soothingly, even as Donut soaked his jacket with tears and mucus. Donut eventually quieted down into just sniffling, but he still didn't remove his face from Caboose's jacket.

“...This place sucks,” Donut finally mumbled, voice muffled and waterlogged. Tears were still leaking out of his eyes. “I hate it.”

Caboose was silent for a while, his fingers rubbing little circles on Donut's back.

“I… do not know how to make you feel better,” Caboose said quietly.

“That's okay...” Donut shifted a little so his face was resting in a dryer patch of jacket and shut his eyes. “...This is comfortable.” His wounds were stinging from the movement, but they seemed to be doing so less.

“Hugs make things better sometimes. I know I would have liked a hug when I could not go back home.”

“Mm. You're supposed to get four hugs a day. But that's… harder, here.”

“Yeah. There is not enough hugging.” Caboose frowned. “Sometimes I see people hug, but usually it is when they're making sex. And sometimes it is good to hug with clothes on. Otherwise it gets very tiring.”

Donut let out a watery laugh. “True.” He slid back to a lying position. The hug was nice, but sitting up still hurt if he did it for too long, although there was a slight improvement over a few days ago.

“I… I am sorry that I did not stop O'Malley or Washingtub.”

“It's alright. You couldn't have done anything, Caboose.”

“Even if I had been here… O'Malley is scary, and so is Washington. Washington is not as scary as O'Malley on his own, but he gets sticks and pepper spray to hurt people with.”

“Caboose, seriously. It's okay. I'm not going to shout at you.”

“I kind of want you to shout at me. Because I would really not like that, and then maybe I would have to crush O'Malley so that I would not hear you shout again.”

“But that's mean!”

“Sometimes mean is good!”

“Not in this case. Look. The hugging helps, Caboose. That's all that matters. Speaking of which.” Donut wiped off some of the tears and snot before holding out his arms. “Four hugs a day. That was only one, by my count.”

 

* * *

 

“Church?”

“No, Caboose, I don't want to help you find books at the library. I'm tired and that's Miller territory,” Church muttered, face resting in one hand while he prodded his food with a fork. Caboose dropped into the seat opposite him, looking uncharacteristically serious. Tucker was next to him, glaring at Caboose for elbowing him earlier, while Grif and Simmons discussed the logistics of how much it would cost to actually do Batman-style vigilantism.

“It is not that.” Caboose frowned, fiddling with his fingers, before looking at Church. “O'Malley attacked Cannoli again.”

Church paused, then put down his fork. “Again? You serious? How'd he even manage that? Donut's under guard.”

“Wash was mad at Donut for a really confusing reason. He left.”

“What an asshole.”

Tucker leaned closer to Church, keeping his voice low. “Didn't O'Malley threaten to hurt Donut if you didn't help him escape?”

“...Shit, he did.”

“Why would O'Malley target Donut for something you did?” Grif asked. He and Simmons had paused their conversation in order to listen in.

“It's because Church has been fucking Donut,” Tucker said.

“What? No, he hasn't,” Grif said dismissively.

“Uh, yeah, he totally has.”

“...Man, Tucker, you have got the signals crossed, haven't—“ Grif stopped, upon seeing Church trying to communicate 'don't you fucking dare' with his eyes. “...Alright, whatever you wanna think. But that's dumb. Donut's not fucking Church.”

“I tried to tell him,” Church grumbled.

Caboose looked at Church, eyes squinted, before saying, “You are making sex with Donut? You should include more hugs. Donut wants more hugs.”

“You see what you've done?” Church snapped at Tucker. “Now he's got the wrong idea, too!”

“So O'Malley attacked Donut again?” Simmons said, looking at Caboose. “Did he… did he do any damage?”

Caboose considered the question for a long time, frowning. “He… did not manage to get far enough. But he tried. He tried to...” The frown got deeper. “Tried to steal Church's job, even though Key Lime Pie did not want to give it to him.”

“Tried to—oh.” Church let out a long hiss of breath. “Sick fuck,” he muttered.

“That's just nasty,” Tucker said.

Simmons didn't say anything, but his eyes had narrowed and his mouth had set in a thin line. He looked at Grif, who met him with a similar stare. After a moment of silent eye contact, Simmons raised an eyebrow slightly at Grif and gestured at his own throat with his thumb. Grif nodded slightly.

“He did not finish, though. Custard Tart bit off part of his tongue,” Caboose finished.

“Holy shit. That's badass,” Tucker said.

“It's disgusting. ...But, actually, yeah. That's pretty badass,” Church admitted.

“And now he is very sad and scared and he has not been getting enough hugs.” Caboose gave Church a stern look. “You need to go there and hug him immediately.”

“No fucking way.”

“You are the worst prison bitch,” Tucker said.

“Oh my god, for the last time—ugh, forget it. You know what, talking to Donut is starting to sound waaay better than talking to you assholes.” Church got to his feet.

“Way to cover, dude.”

“Shut up, Tucker.”

Grif gave Church another look, this time with a raised eyebrow. Church flipped him off on his way out.

As he left the cafeteria, he heard footsteps hurrying after him. He looked back to see Caboose following him.

“Oh god, what now?”

“Church? I do not want to protect Tucker.”

“Tough luck. Now get back in there.”

“But Tucker is not the one getting hurt. I should have been watching French Toast. I have too many people to protect, Church! You and Lopez and—“

“Then stop protecting Lopez. You don't even like him!”

“Sheila said I have to.”

“So?”

“So I have to.”

Church let out an annoyed grunt. “God. Look, I don't care about you protecting Lopez or Dye-Job. I don't even care if you suck at protecting me. But you gotta protect Tucker. Alright? No-one else matters.”

“That is not true,” Caboose muttered. After a long pause, during which he frowned to himself, he added, “I will keep protecting Tucker. But it is very difficult, and Tucker is a jerkface.”

“Yeah, I know. But what're you gonna do. Also while we're on the subject… don't elbow him to get out of laundry duty. He was bitching about that for hours.”

 

* * *

 

“So you two are planning murder, then?” Tucker said casually.

Grif and Simmons, who still had yet to say anything since Caboose gave the rundown on what was happening, both looked at Tucker.

“...What makes you say that?” Simmons said slowly.

“Dude. You did this.” Tucker made a throat-slitting motion with his thumb. “How obvious can you get?”

“Of course we have to kill him now,” Grif growled. “You heard what he did. Guy's not just mutilating Donut, he's gotta be a fucking rapist too? That's just… ugh! Guy deserves to have his dick ripped off and fed to himself.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Simmons muttered, teeth gritted.

Tucker shrugged, picking at his food. “This is prison, dude. It happens.”

“Not while we have any say in it,” Grif said.

“Man, and you're normally so lazy. Donut bringing out the sibling instincts or something?”

It wasn't like Grif was the only inmate Tucker had seen trying to find sibling replacements in other inmates. He was pretty sure part of the reason Church had originally brought Caboose over to his side was to find a little brother substitute, as much as Church would never admit it. Of course, turns out Church didn't have the patience for Caboose, so those plans dissolved after two days.

“Fuck off, Tucker.”

“Anyway, guy's gotta be, y'know... totally irrational to attack someone in an infirmary. Threatening him into silence won't work," Simmons pointed out. "So we basically have to kill him. Problem is we have to figure out a way to do it without being caught. I mean... I like Donut, but he's not worth messing up parole for.”

“Isn't that a bummer. Why's the law gotta be such a dick about murder?” Tucker said. “I mean, I ain't getting involved unless you find out a way to not get caught, but—“

“I want to help.” Caboose had reappeared at the table after running after Church. He plopped back into his seat, quickly twisting around to look at Lopez before returning to staring at Tucker. He'd been doing that a lot lately. It was starting to get creepy.

"Help? Hey, yeah. You've already got life without parole, you can kill him without risking your freedom," Grif said, but Tucker shook his head.

“Won't work. Anyone else and Caboose could do it, but not O'Malley. Caboose is a giant baby when it comes to O'Malley.”

“O'Malley is scary,” Caboose said quietly.

“Then how the hell are you going to help?” Simmons said.

Caboose shrugged. "I do not know. But I want to." He scowled, smooshing part of his food with his spoon. “O'Malley deserves to die.”

“Fuck right he does. Well, we'll figure out something. Once we figure out where the hell he is. If Donut bit off part of his tongue, he'd probably be at the hospital? Guess we have to—“

"Stop staring at me!" Tucker yelled. Grif raised an eyebrow. "Not you! Caboose won't stop staring. It's fucking creepy."

"I am not staring."

"You're staring right now!"

Caboose just kept going. Staring. He didn't even seem to be blinking.

"No, I am not."

"Dude, seriously! I'm already pissed off about you elbowing me earlier."

"That was an accident."

"No, it wasn't. And you hit one of my bad ribs, you douchebag!"

"Stop yelling at me. It is not nice."

"Your face isn't nice!"

"That was a burn," Simmons said, while Grif snorted.

 

* * *

 

"You are so going to die when O'Malley comes back."

“Nice to see you too,” Donut muttered at the ceiling, before looking over at Church. Church passed by York, nodding to him as he did so, and sat down on the stool that Caboose normally occupied. “And you're here because…?”

“Tucker and Caboose were being annoying. Also Caboose was saying some bullshit about how it's now my responsibility to hug you.”

“Don't.”

“Not gonna!” Church shifted the stool so it was closer to the wall and leaned against it. “Although I thought you'd be all about hugs. You seem like a hugs guy.”

“Normally, sure.” Donut frowned, looking away from Church. “Look, I… only really want to hug people I trust, and… it's not that I distrust you, exactly, but—“

“I getcha. Just because I don't try to kill you doesn't mean you want me that close. It's cool.” Church mulled this over for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “You trust Caboose?”

Donut hesitated before saying, “When he's not angry.”

Church let out a doubtful hm. “Well, whatever. Uh… I got shit to say to you, though.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Okay, so… O'Malley attacking you? That might be my bad.”

“...Wait, what?”

“I mean, not the first time? Well, probably not. But… O'Malley seemed to think I could help him escape, and he threatened to hurt you if I didn't help him do so.”

“Oh god, he wants to escape?” York lowered the newspaper he'd been reading in the corner, already looking exhausted just thinking about it. “Is that why he's acting up so much? God, I don't want to deal with that. I hate escapes. Didn't he listen to Flowers' talk? ...No, wait, he's at the hospital.”

“So the only reason I'm getting attacked is because he thinks we're fucking? That's bullshit, Church! Bullshit!” Donut glared at Church. “If he comes back I'm correcting him.”

“Don't you dare!” Church snapped. “Who cares, anyway? He'll probably come after you for biting off his tongue. That's pretty cool, by the way. Didn't think you had it in you."

"It wasn't cool, it was disgusting!"

“Look, I came to give you a heads up, not tell you to tell him the truth.” Church shifted on the stool. “Don't get me wrong, I do feel a little bad. I mean, the whole thing where murderous inmates are out to get you? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.”

“Yeah, but you're a blackmailing jerk,” Donut pointed out. “Of course that happened.”

“Oh, it was way before that. It comes with the territory of… particular crimes.”

“Particular crimes? Bigger than murder?”

“Not all murder is equal.” Church shrugged. “That's not the point here. The point is that everyone trying to kill you totally sucks.”

"Gee, I hadn't realised!" Donut said sarcastically. "I thought that getting hospitalized and having to rip off people's tongues was just lovely fun!"

"Whatever. Anyhow, if he comes back, just... I don't know, bite off the rest of his tongue."

"But that was gross!"

"Oh, cry a river, why don't you?" Church raised his hand, rubbed his thumb and finger together. "See this? It's the world's smallest violin. Listen to the music playing in honour of your most recent shitstorm.”

“You are the worst at convincing me to keep this thing with Tucker a secret.”

“Yeah, well, if I gotta sit through his mocking about us—“

“Tucker thinks we're a thing, too?!”

“Hey, I tried to tell him we aren't!”

“Well, you know what might convince him? Admitting the truth!”

"It's not happening!"

“Oh my god, don't be a baby,” Donut grumbled. “If he says no, then he says no. Better than not trying.”

“Not trying is better when the answer is going to be no!” Church snapped. “You've met Tucker. You've heard him talk. He's straight. He's the straightest straight to ever straight.”

“Doesn't he fuck more guys than the rest of us put together?”

“He said it doesn't count unless he touches their dicks.”

“God. Church, I don't know if you've noticed… but Tucker's kind of a tool. Where is your taste?”

“Ugh. Believe me, I've noticed. Point is, he's pretty obviously not into relationships with dudes, so why make things weird?”

“Again. You're a huge baby.”

“I already regret warning you.”

“Oh yeah, because that warning did sooo much good. Now I won't get attacked multiple times by O'Malley—oh wait!”

“Yeah, definitely regretting it.”

 

* * *

 

“We're moving you,” York said the next morning, a little after breakfast.

“Oh? It was getting kind of cramped in here,” Donut admitted. Between him, York and Caboose, who'd turned up again right after breakfast, there wasn't much room to move around.

“We finally got the stains out of the floor of the main one. And we're getting O'Malley back from the hospital. So we're sending you back to the main room and keeping him here so the next doctor can keep an eye on him and so he won't hurt anyone else.”

“So… O'Malley's not dead, then?”

On one hand, Donut was disappointed and terrified. O'Malley not being dead meant… well, that he was alive and probably not happy with Donut. On the other hand, Donut didn't want to be responsible for another death, even if it was O'Malley.

“Nah. Even if he had died, it wouldn't have been from the tongue. It's mostly the drug overdose that was an issue. The tongue's just kind of an inconvenience. A painful one, and he won't be able to talk for a while, but they reattached it.”

“...Um. About biting off his tongue… am I in trouble for—”

York interrupted him before he could finish.

“Of course not. There's no way it could have been anything but self-defence.”

Donut considered this, then looked at York. “Is Wash in trouble?”

“It… hasn't come up yet.”

“Meaning you didn't tell them how O'Malley got so close,” Donut said flatly. “Because you don't want Wash in trouble, even if you don't agree with him.”

York didn't reply, although he looked incredibly uncomfortable. “Uh, well… anyway, I can move you back once I move the rest of the stuff up. I'm just waiting for North to get here to help me carry everything—“

“You called?” North strolled in. “Hand me the heaviest things.”

“I dunno about heaviest, but that box over there has a lot of delicate stuff I don't want to drop,” York said, gesturing.

“Done.”

As North picked up the box, York looked at Caboose. He'd been listening to the entire conversation silently. York tilted his head a little, considering Caboose. Caboose blinked at him, putting on his most vacant look. York then looked back at Donut.

“I'll have to leave you here if we want to get all the stuff moved up there faster. Do you want me to lock Caboose out, or lock him in with you? I don't want the door unlocked.”

“You can leave him here. That's fine.” Donut's tone was frosty.

“Alright. Alright, then.”

York grabbed a box, and he and North left. They heard the click of the lock, and footsteps fading into the distance. Once the footsteps were gone, Caboose spoke.

“Am I not supposed to tell? I already told Church. ...Or am I supposed to tell everybody? I will tell everybody, if telling is good. And if I tell, then I will be the snitch and only I will get stitches!”

Donut patted Caboose's hand. “No, it's… I don't think it would do much good.”

“You think maybe Wash will do more bad things?”

“I don't know. God, I don't even know what the fuck is going on in his head.” Donut considered it for a moment, then said, “What I do know is that York is one of the nicer, more reasonable guards in this place. And he's the only one who saw first-hand that Wash is an asshole. Sure, he kicked Wash out, but… well, he doesn't want Wash fired, so he doesn't say anything else.” Donut let out a bitter, disgusted noise and added, “And honestly… I doubt anyone else would do anything, even if I did tell them. I mean, if York doesn't speak up it's my word against Wash's, and Wash is a guard. Who do you think they'll believe?”

“They should believe you,” Caboose said stubbornly.

“'Should' doesn't mean they will.”

“Maybe Grif and Simmons should try and smoosh Wash's head, too!”

“Grif and Simmons shouldn't be crushing anyone's heads. Especially not guards. They'll die.”

“...So they should only smoosh O'Malley.”

“Oh my god, Caboose, I said no-one, not 'no-one but O'Malley.'” Donut paused, then asked, “Is this a real thing? Since when?”

“Oh, well, they were going to hurt O'Malley for hurting you already, like how they hurt Lopez. But then I told Church about O'Malley trying to make sex with you, and now Grif and Simmons are going to murder him. I am allowed to help. Even stupid Tucker might help, although he said only if there's no chance he will get caught.”

“Tucker? Really?” Donut asked skeptically. Grif and Simmons were his friends, so he could understand their defensiveness. But not Tucker. “Besides, it's a bad idea. I mean, I hate the guy. I'd be fine if he dropped dead of a heart attack or if someone else killed him. But if Grif and Simmons do it, and they get caught… well, they'll get stuck in here forever and it'll be my fault.”

"Can Tucker get into trouble?"

"No, I even object to that. Church would be heartbroken."

"He would? He did get very sad when Miller hurt him, but Tucker says that Church is making sex with you. Oh, are you and Church and Tucker doing a polyester?"

“Oh my god, no. Look, I'm not making sex with Church. And the next time you see Tucker, tell him to come up here and talk to me. Because this is just getting ridiculous.”

“No polyester?”

“No. Tucker's just stupid.”

“That makes sense.”

 

* * *

 

O'Malley hated a great many things, but one of the things he despised most was his recent lack of tongue.

Oh, sure, it'd been reattached. Although how well it'd heal was up in the air. But it was far too painful to speak at the moment and O'Malley wasn't sure how well he'd be able to, even without the pain. It was irritating. His voice was one of his better weapons. Physical damage was fun, but psychological damage often lasted longer.

He'd seen proof of that after what he'd done to Wash so many years ago. The physical injuries had healed, leaving behind only scars that could be hidden, but he still freaked out when someone turned off the lights.

There were ways to psychologically scar people without words, but it was harder. Especially in prison, where he had limited control over his environment.

O'Malley stared at the wall angrily. There was nothing else he could do. He was stuck here in the temporary infirmary, with the door locked. Not even a doctor to bother, right now. Like being in the shoe, just with a slightly more comfortable bed.

His mind wandered. For whatever reason, it wandered to an incident a year ago. It had been his birthday. Doc had given him a little cupcake, with those annoying shiny balls on the top. O'Malley had assumed it was poisoned, but it hadn't been. It had actually been quite tasty.

O'Malley was sure it had mostly been an attempt to keep O'Malley distracted. But only Doc would give a cupcake to the man who tormented him day after day. Doc just couldn't help being nice to people. So why was he being so cruel right now? Staying away from his rightful owner was the worst kind of cruelty.

O'Malley scowled at the wall. He would have tried making a break for it at the hospital, but he was strapped down the entire time, and what little he could remember he'd still been out of his mind on those meds.

The hallucinations had long stopped by now. The world had lost those vivid colours. O'Malley wondered if all the zealots saw the same sorts of colours he'd seen under the influence. It would explain how such an oddly specific delusion had spread so far throughout the prison population. He wondered what the hell Doc had been giving them.

As O'Malley wondered, someone knocked on the door.

"I know you're in there, O'Malley. I want a word with you."

Ah. That was Miller's voice.

O'Malley stayed silent, although he had little choice in the matter. He could make noises, but none of them were particularly dignified.

A few moments passed, then Miller said, "If you're listening, knock twice on the door."

O'Malley stayed still for a few more moments before sliding off his bed, approaching the door and knocking twice on it. Couldn't hurt.

"I want your help with something. It concerns Tucker."

O'Malley grinned just a little at this. He could guess what Miller wanted. And he did owe Tucker for threatening him with a screwdriver weeks back. He'd been so concerned with getting Doc back that he'd forgotten about it.

"I know you have problems with your tongue and all, but I managed to get some paper and a pencil off Wyoming. You willing to listen? Knock twice if you are.”

Knock. Knock. Once he did that, paper and a pencil was slipped under the door.

"Problem's pretty simple. I want Tucker to have a very painful, fatal accident. But Caboose is in the way, and he threatened to kill me if I so much as touched him. And I don't doubt that he will, after... well, the hand thing. So... how do I get rid of him?"

O'Malley considered this for a moment, before picking up the pencil and trying to write down his reply. The key word being 'try' because his hands, as always, were shaking too badly to perform the finer actions. He had to try several times before he came up with something remotely readable. Even then, it looked like it'd been written by a five-year-old.

_I will help. But you have to do something in return._

"Depends what you want done," Miller said once he'd read the reply. He pushed the paper back again.

_There is a phone number carved on the wall of my cell. I will write down a message. You will phone the number and tell the one on the other side the message._

"That's an odd request. But alright. That it?"

_Yes. Do that first. Then return here._

"How do I know you'll keep your side of the deal?"

_Because I'm bored and I enjoy making people suffer. That's how._

"...Weird, but alright. What's the message?”

 

* * *

 

O'Malley was disturbing. That much was certain. But Miller wasn't about to reject his help. He knew he needed Caboose out of the way. And he knew he didn't stand a chance of getting rid of Caboose on his own. O'Malley was, as far as Miller knew, the only person Caboose was afraid of. As much as he didn't want to deal with the guy, O'Malley was simply the only option.

Well, the other option was leaving Tucker and Caboose alone. But at this stage, he didn't feel that it was an option to do so. Life on the outside was too rough, especially when he couldn't pick up anything. And life on the inside wouldn't be right until Tucker was dealt with. Otherwise it would feel like Joannes was haunting him.

Miller fumbled with the phone. He'd had to pay for the call himself, but it was a small price for the help.

The phone rang four times. On the fifth ring, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

Miller recognised the voice. Although it was obscured slightly from the amount of noise in the background. "Doc? How'd he get your number?"

"Uh, who is this?"

"You remember me? You mangled my hands after I... erm, 'caught them in a door?'"

"Miller? Oh... Oh, oh no... O'Malley gave you this number, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he did. Look, I'm just going to get this over with. He can't talk right now, due to that little fruity guy biting his tongue in half—"

"Wait, what?!"

"But he wanted me to pass on a message. He says that you're, um… give me a second, his writing is terrible."

Miller squinted at the shaky scribbling that was O'Malley's note. After a moment of trying to translate it, he kept going.

"You're making him very disappointed by not coming back here. He says that if you don't return very soon, he'll have no choice but to break out and find you. He says you can't hide from him—and he's underlined that part, so I assume he wants me to emphasise it—and that you're going to be in huge trouble when you come back, because it's apparently your fault he's in so much pain. Blah blah blah, the writing gets too scribbly after that to read. ...Doc, you still there?"

There was a low whine from the other end. "Oh no, no, no... He wouldn't really break out, would he?"

"Hell if I know. He's one crazy fucker, that one. Wouldn't put it past him. But escape's tricky. He'd need connections, and he just doesn’t seem like the guy who has them. Not the right ones, anyway.”

Doc let out a sigh. “I hope you're right.” There was a shout from the background, someone yelling at Doc to deliver some lattes. “I have to go. Please… please don't call me again. I'm sorry that's mean, but...”

"Hey, it's not me you have to worry about. Want me to pass the message onto O'Malley?"

"I would appreciate it, but can you phrase it in a polite, delicate way?"

"No problem.”

 

* * *

 

"Yeah, he told you to fuck off and stop calling him."

O'Malley scowled at the wall, before writing a new message on the paper. _I assume that means he doesn't plan to return._

"Oh, you think? Now tell me how to get rid of Caboose."

O'Malley kept scowling for a few moments. He'd have to seriously consider escaping, Doc was clearly insistent on avoiding him. Ridiculous. He shook his head before returning to Miller's question.

_It's quite obvious._

"Oh, really? Why don't you freaking enlighten me, then?!"

_The key is that you don't need to get rid of Caboose at all._

There was a pause, then Miller said, “No, see, I'm pretty sure that's the exact opposite of what I want.”

_You fool. Caboose despises Tucker, even at the best of times. All you have to do is convince Caboose that protecting Tucker will somehow harm Church. Tucker's a con-artist. He's untrustworthy. Convince Caboose that, one way or another, Tucker really means to exploit Church, to harm him. Not only will Caboose stop protecting Tucker… but I'd wager he would destroy Tucker himself. And wouldn't that just be sweet irony?_

There was a few moments of silence before he heard Miller say, "That's fucked up."

_Yes. It is._

"I am definitely in.”

 

* * *

 

There were certain sacrifices that Miller had to make in the name of achieving revenge. One of those sacrifices was that he had to talk to one of the more irritating inmates around.

“Hey, Andy. You got a second?”

“I dunno. Do I have to look at you while we talk?”

Miller considered finding help from someone else. Unfortunately, most of Caboose's other friends were too connected to Tucker. It had to be Andy.

“I need your help.”

“Ain't happening. Look, Miller, you want something set on fire? I'm your man. But if that's not what you want, then go take a hike because I'm got shit to do.”

“You don't have anything to do.”

“That's not what your mom said. Zing!”

“I'll give you a lighter if you hear me out.”

“Oh? Well, that's a different matter. Hand it over, asswipe.” Miller tossed it at him, and Andy caught it with a grin. “Sweet. Need all the spares I can get. Dickweed guards keep confiscating mine. Alright, so what do you want?”

“You're friends with Caboose, right?”

“Sure. Caboose is great. Sometimes we hang out, sometimes we play this game where I set his jacket on fire and he tries to take it off before he gets burns… what's your point?”

“Will he listen to you?”

“He lets me set him on fire, weren't you listening? 'Course he listens to me.”

Miller sat down on the bench next to Andy, as the pyromaniac started flicking the lighter that Miller had given him on and off. “So, say you told him Tucker was conspiring against Church. Would he believe you?”

“Aaaah, now that's trickier.”

“Oh?”

“Sure, he thinks Tucker is a dickhead—and he'd be right—but he also thinks the sun shines out of Church's ass. Saying Tucker's not to be trusted means saying oh-so-great Church is wrong.” Andy flicked the lighter on again, feeling around for his packet of cigarettes. "Let's say I tell Caboose that Tucker's a two-faced jerkward. Caboose would go to Church and ask if it was true. Church would say 'fuck no.' Caboose would agree, come back and tell me I was being silly.”

“...Well, I don't have a better idea. Would it hurt for you to try?”

“I'll do it if you make it worth my while, buttmunch.”

“Ugh. What do you want, then?”

“I'm thinking some molotov ingredients.”

"For one fucking conversation?"

"Hey, you can ask someone else. No-one's forcing you to pay up."

“...Ugh. Fine. Gimme a couple of days to come up with the stuff.”

 

* * *

 

“Ow, ow, ow, hey! I can walk, quit dragging me!”

Donut heard the voices long before Caboose pushed the door to the infirmary open and dragged Tucker in.

“I brought Tucker here!” Caboose said proudly, hand firmly clasped around Tucker's wrist. Tucker yanked his arm out of Caboose's grip with a glare.

“I… I only needed for you to ask him to come here, Caboose.”

“Yes. But Tucker said he was not going to visit you. I thought this would be quicker, Cream Pie.”

Tucker's pissed-off expression immediately dissolved as he started laughing. “Pfft. 'Cream Pie?' Bow chika bow wow.”

Caboose looked at Tucker, then gave Donut a questioning look. Donut just shrugged at him. In the corner, York made a 'blergh' noise from behind his newspaper.

“Okay. Well. I need to protect Church. I will be back once stupid Tucker is gone. Bye, Cream Horn!”

“Oh my god, that's even better,” Tucker laughed. “Actually, I dunno, Cream Pie is pretty good… I'll call it a tie. Ah, man… that almost makes being dragged up here worth it. But seriously what the fuck?”

As the door closed behind Caboose, Donut shifted back into a sitting position and studied Tucker for a moment. He hadn't actually thought about how he was going to explain this. Tucker drummed his fingers against his arm, his face returning again to a frown.

“Did you actually want something? Or did you get Caboose to pull my arm out of its socket just so you could admire my stunning good looks?”

“Tucker, you may be pretty but it's not worth the personality attached.”

“Eh. Worth it. Anyway, I've got things to do—bow chika bow wow—so if you could hurry up, that'd be fucking amazing.”

“Alright. So, uh… you know how you think that me and Church are...” Donut hesitated

“That Church is all over your 'cream horn?'” Tucker asked, sketching quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “Yeah, I heard you were bumping uglies. No accounting for taste. And now I can't get the mental images out of my head. Ugh.”

“That'd be so much pale ass,” York said.

“Right?! Like, I've seen Church in the showers—no homo—and that ass is so pale that you could blind someone with it.”

“I don't want to picture this,” York mumbled.

“Tough luck, misery loves company.”

“Look, no-one wants to talk about Church's pale ass!” Donut said exasperatedly.

“Sure you do, you're the one—“

“No. No, I'm not. I'm not banging Church! That's gross! Besides, Church is older than one of my mothers. Ew.”

Tucker snorted. “Church put you up to this, didn't he?”

“No, he didn't!”

“Pfft, yeah he did, this is just his way of trying to stop the mockery. Look, I know it's true. O'Malley said it, and not in a 'making shit up' way. He didn't even know I was there.”

“O'Malley's wrong!”

“He is wrong about a lot,” York mused.

“York, will you stay out of the conversation?” Donut snapped.

“Touchy.”

“Look, Church didn't ask me to tell you this. In fact, he explicitly told me not to tell you what I'm about to tell you.”

“Uh huh, sure—“

“Church is into you.”

“...Wait. What?”

“He's into you. Not me.“

Tucker snorted. “No it's not. You're high. You're high on painkillers.”

“I wish! Listen, I am sick of being accused of being into Church, or of Church being into me. I'm sick of people coming after me for it, especially since I don't even get the freaking perks of it. So, I'm telling you. So maybe you'll… do something, and then, I don't know, at least you stand a chance of getting the perks—“

“Bullshit.” 

“It's not bullshit! Have you ever seen me and Church doing anything—anything at all—that would imply we were tight?”

"Well, of course not! It's not like you'd go fucking each other in the middle of the yard—“

"And he's got Caboose watching you practically non-stop because he's so freaked out at the idea of anyone attacking you."

"Yeah, because he needs someone to help him with all the blackmailing stuff—"

York cleared his throat a little and said, “I know you don't want my help, but wasn't Church kind of a wreck when Tucker got sent to the hospital?”

“God, he was. Never seen him so upset. Completely off his rocker. Kind of scary, really.”

Tucker crossed his arms and stared at the opposite wall. The disbelief was draining from his face, to be replaced by an expression somewhere between thoughtful, disgusted and just plain angry. That was not what Donut had wanted out of this.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

"Tucker?"

"...Not listening."

"Oh, come on."

"Just... just stop talking, alright? I'm just gonna leave now, pretend this fucking conversation never happened."

"What?! It took me forever to figure out how to tell you, you can't just forget about it!"

"Yeah? You ever consider that, maybe, this is the kind of shit I'd rather not know about?" Tucker stood up, glaring at Donut. "Look. I don't care about this, alright? I don't care about whatever stupid gay fantasies you've made up in that bleached head of yours—"

"I don't even have any dye in my hair…"

"—I don't give a shit about any of it. I don't give a shit about you or him or O'Malley… all I want you to do is keep that crap to yourself!"

"But—"

"Dusting my hands of this conversation! Never talk to me again, at least until you've gotten off this... whatever the fuck you're on."

Tucker left before Donut could say anything else, slamming the door behind him. Donut mouthed wordlessly for a couple of seconds, still stuck on the train of thought that he'd been on, mostly consisting of 'why are you pissed about this?' Then he covered his face with his hands.

“Shit.”

“Maybe he just needs time to cool off and consider the idea?” York suggested.

“Shut up, York.”


	16. Chapter Twelve: Tractor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new doctor arrives. Andy tells Caboose some things that may not be strictly true. Church and Tucker have a long overdue talk that doesn't end well. And O'Malley and Wyoming start to develop a scheme.

Three days later, York was cleaning up all the files he'd left scattered around the infirmary, trying to get the place back to some resemblance of tidiness. When he'd started tidying up, it had looked like a bomb filled with paper had blown up. Rather amazing since York had been there less than a week. Now it just looked the regular kind of messy, which was an improvement over 'paper bomb.'

"I don't think I can sort this out in time," York muttered. "Knew I should have cleaned up earlier."

He didn't get a reply from Donut. Although Donut had been pretty friendly with him in the past, he'd closed himself off once he realised that York hadn't told anyone about Wash.

“Oh, by the way—you don't have to answer—but you should be getting a new doctor today. A real one. So, you know… that's good, right?”

Donut pointedly ignored him.

“Hmm...” York gazed at the files with a frown. “I probably should have ordered these instead of just pushing them off to the side. Whoops.”

As he started stacking some of the remaining files, the door swung open. A tall, dark-haired woman who looked like she could bench-press a tank walked in, looking around with mild interest.

“This is the infirmary?”

“Sure is. You must be the new doc.”

“Thank god,” Donut muttered under his breath.

“Is there anything I need to know immediately?” the new doctor asked.

“The medication lists are somewhere around… here.” York gestured at the right of the desk. “Donut doesn't need close attention but he needs painkillers every now and again, and he can't currently walk. There's another smaller infirmary where we're keeping a guy called O'Malley. Be careful around him and don't let him near any sharp objects.”

“I see. Could you give me directions?”

 

* * *

 

Donut mostly just alternated between watching silently and ignoring the situation as York showed the new doctor around.

It took around ten minutes before York left. The new doctor eyed the mess of files before turning to Donut.

“Hello. I'm Dr. Filss. If you prefer, you may call me Sheila."

It hadn't clicked until then where Donut had seen her before, although he'd gotten some sense of deja vu when she walked in.

“Oh, I thought I'd seen you before! You're Caboose's doctor. And Lopez's girlfriend.”

"Wife, actually."

"Really? I thought he said he killed his wife.”

Sheila sighed. “Why do people keep saying that? No. Lopez never killed his wife. I'm the only wife he has ever had.”

"But I could swear he said that—" Donut shrugged. "Well, maybe my Spanish is a little off. I could be wrong."

"Yes. Yes, you could. How are you feeling?"

Donut gestured at himself. “I got beaten up, stabbed, had my ear cut off and had to bite off a man's tongue to stop him from assaulting me. Other than that? Peachy.”

Sheila let out a little hiss of sympathy. “That sounds uncomfortable.”

“Yeeeeah. Yeah, it was.”

Sheila picked up his chart and examined it. As she did so, she occasionally glanced up to look at Donut. She tilted her head slightly.

“So… you're Muffin Man. Caboose is very fond of you,” she said, smiling slightly. “I've seen you during visiting hours on occasion. ...And from what Lopez tells me, he owes you his life.”

Donut fidgeted a little, looking away. “Nah. I mean… I think Caboose might have injured him because of that whole serial wife killer misunderstanding, anyway.”

“That may be true. But you saved him nonetheless.” Sheila inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. You… you have no idea how much that means to me. And treating Caboose like you do… that also means quite a lot. You seem a much better influence than that Church man he talks about.”

Donut snorted. “Who isn't a better influence than Church?”

Sheila shrugged. “I don't know. I have yet to personally meet him.” She finished looking over Donut's chart before putting it down. “I should go check on the other patient.”

“Be careful. He's a whack-a-doodle.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast was quiet.

Of course, Grif and Simmons were arguing like always. But they never really directed conversation towards anyone but each other. With the exception of Donut, if he was around. Not that Church cared, he didn't want any part of their ridiculous discussions of which superheroes would beat who in a fight. Today, it was about Quicksilver or the Flash.

Caboose was pretty much silent during meal times now because he always spent it keeping a watch on people. He barely ever touched his food because he was too busy craning his neck to make sure Lopez wasn't being attacked. It had gotten to the point where Church occasionally had to yell at him to eat.

Still, at least Church knew why Caboose was quiet. He didn't get why Tucker was so silent all of a sudden. It'd been going on for, like, three days now. Normally, Tucker had a constant stream of crap to talk about. Talking on and on about Junior, or old cons he'd pulled on the outside, or mocking Church for whatever he could think of, or going on about all the women he'd banged. Blah blah blah blah blah. And sometimes Church wanted him to be quiet, but now it felt weird not having that constant stream of background noise.

"Church!" Caboose whispered.

"Oh god, what?"

"Miller is talking to Lopez."

“Really?” Church leaned slightly to the left, so he could see Lopez from where he was sitting. He accidentally elbowed Tucker at the same time. "Hey, Tucker, you're in the way. Scoot for a second, will you?"

Tucker muttered something under his breath. Church definitely caught the word 'dickface' in there. But he did shift his chair. Church managed to get a glimpse of Miller and Lopez. Neither were staring in his direction. Miller was doing pretty much all the talking. Lopez was frowning.

A couple of moments later, Miller went to sit down somewhere else. And a couple of minutes after that, Lopez got up and left. Church went back to prodding at his food.

"Caboose."

"Yes, Church?"

"Follow Lopez. See where he goes. Be subtle, for fuck's sake. And that doesn't mean humming 'secret agent' music while you're following him, regardless of what stupid games you've played with Donut."

Simmons shuddered. “Three hours of jetpack noises and spy music.”

“Absolute hell,” Grif said.

"But..." Caboose started. “I have to watch you and—uh. And watch things." He glanced at Tucker.

"It'll be fine. Just come back when you're done. Go on, before he gets out of sight."

"Okay." Caboose climbed to his feet and went the same way Lopez had gone, leaving his hardly touched tray of food behind. Grif immediately reached out, swiped the fresh fruit sitting on the tray and put it on his own.

"Finders keepers," Grif said cheerfully.

Church pushed his cereal around some more. It was soggy by now.

"I don't need fucking protection."

That was the longest sentence that Tucker had said to him in three days. Church only hesitated for a second before responding.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not stupid, Church. You got Caboose watching me non-stop. Always with those fucking eyes... I don't need the protection, so tell him to fuck off."

"Still don't know what you're talking about," Church lied. "Besides, what harm could it do? If Miller's gonna be a bitch and attack again—“

"Then I'll deal with it myself." Tucker stood up. "I don't need your help, so drop it."

Church frowned and shoved the remainder of his food in Grif's direction, before climbing to his feet and following. "Oh yeah? You'll deal with it, will you? That worked real well for you last time, didn't it?"

"Shut up."

"You got more ribs to cushion the beatings with, do you?"

"I said shut up, alright?" Tucker snapped. He tried storming out of the cafeteria, but Church was right on his heels.

"What's the big fucking deal? So Caboose ends up staring at you for a bit. That's a lot better than getting killed!"

"Hey, I told you to shut up like twice now! So, shut up and fuck off!"

"You fuck off!"

"I'm trying, you keep following me!"

"Gah, I mean stay there and stop being a jerkoff!"

"No!"

The arguing continued as Tucker tried to escape to the cells, and Church insisted on following him.

 

* * *

 

"I am sneaking, I am sneaking, I am sneaking," Caboose whispered to himself as he followed Lopez, hiding behind various corners. He was getting funny looks from any other inmates that passed by. But Lopez didn't notice him, so he was doing a good job.

Lopez did not look happy. He never looked happy. Which was good, because he was a mean man who did not deserve to be happy.

He kept walking, and Caboose kept following. Until Lopez stopped at a door. The door to the little infirmary they'd been keeping Donut in until a few days ago. Lopez knocked on it three times. Caboose crouched and watched.

Lopez didn't say anything. But a piece of paper came out from underneath the door. Lopez read it, scribbled something on it and pushed the piece of paper back. This happened many times.

Every time the paper got pushed back to Lopez, Lopez got even more frowny. Caboose wondered what they were writing. He wondered who Lopez was writing to.

"Caboose, what are you doing?"

Caboose yelped and jumped away from the voice. Which meant accidentally jumping where Lopez could clearly see him, as well as making enough noise to draw his attention. But that didn't matter at the moment, because he was staring at someone who was not supposed to be in the prison.

"...Sheila?!"

Sheila peered down at him. "Why were you crouching there?"

Caboose ignored the question. He was still confused.

"Sheila? Are you a police lady now? Did you get arrested?!”

Lopez had looked around when Caboose first shouted Sheila's name. And when he saw Sheila, he went very pale. He quickly shoved the piece of paper back under the door before standing up. He stepped towards Sheila. Once, twice. He didn't say anything.

Sheila smiled sheepishly. She didn't say anything either, maybe she couldn't think of anything to say. They both just stared at each other.

Then Lopez pulled her forward and hugged her really tightly. He said something in Spaniel, but Caboose didn't know what he meant. Sheila said something and rubbed his back fondly. It was a very nice hug. But it made Caboose's stomach twist a little.

"Sheila—" Caboose started, once Sheila pulled away from Lopez. But Sheila immediately stopped him.

"Caboose, normally I'd love to talk. But I have to check on the patient. Maybe after?" She turned to Lopez and said something in Spaniel. Lopez looked afraid. He said something else. They shared more words, and Sheila ended hers by putting her hands on Lopez's shoulders and talking in a tone that sounded very reassuring.

Sheila finished talking to Lopez, gave Caboose a quick smile—though it was not as good as the one she gave Lopez—before opening the door and slipping through it.

Caboose rocked back and forth on his feet for a moment before frowning at Lopez. Lopez crossed his arms, moving to lean against the wall next to the temporary infirmary.

“ _Are you going to try and kill me again?_ ”

Caboose tilted his head slightly, squinting. “You will not hurt Sheila?”

“ _No._ ”

“Because Sheila is a delicate flower who must be protected.”

“ _She can bench-press me._ ”

“Maybe I should sit out here, just in case.” Caboose shifted on his feet a little before adding, “I have to protect other people and tell them things! You stay there and do not be mean while I am gone. I will run very fast.”

He ran off to go find Church again, and tell him that now he had someone new to protect. Maybe Church would see sense and let him stop protecting Tucker.

 

* * *

 

"Hello. I'm Dr. Filss. You may call me Sheila. How are you doing?"

The patient, O'Malley, just stared back. He didn't say anything.

"Quiet? Okay, there should be something around here saying what's wrong with—" O'Malley stuck his tongue out midway through her sentence, showing the stitches. "—oh. You're that one.”

Sheila tried not to let any disgust show on her face. She knew very well what sort of assault it would have to be for tongue-biting to be an option, but she had to learn to expect these sort of criminals as patients.

“Well… do you need anything? ...Are you aware your hands are shaking?”

O'Malley rolled his eyes before shaking his head.

"Was that an attempt at wordless sarcasm?"

A nod.

“Thought so. Ah. I found your details.” Sheila started reading over O'Malley's chart. The further she read, the deeper her frown got. “...Oh dear. ...I thought Lopez was exaggerating about the unqualified doctor, but anyone who'd assign this medicine… I'm amazed you're not dead.”

O'Malley opened his mouth like he was about to speak, then closed it and mimed a scribbling motion.

"I'll locate a pen and some paper. ...Hm." She opened the door, stuck her head out. Lopez was standing there, arms crossed. "Is there anywhere I can find a pen, Lopez?" Lopez held out a pencil immediately. "That was fast. Thank you, I'll be out in a few more minutes."

She closed the door again, handed the pencil and a sheet of paper out to O'Malley. O'Malley wrote down a couple of sentences before handing it back to her.

_The shaking and headaches are worse without the medication. Harmful as those pills are._

“Yes, that would make sense. We'd have to ease you off them, and be careful when switching you to something more stable. If you don't mind me asking—the chart doesn't seem to cover it—just what was the medicine intended as treatment for?”

_I truly don't know. The good doctor thought there was something wrong with me. But it is as you said. He was less than qualified._

“Were you diagnosed with anything prior to arriving here?”

_Theories were made by the police. Prior to that, no._

“...This is going to take some work. But keeping you on these is definitely doing more harm than good.”

_I would prefer you don't mess around with it. Once you leave then they'll probably go back to the old medication for simplicity. They did that with Henderson._

“I don't plan on leaving any time soon.”

_I'm sure the last doctor felt the same way._

"You're not threatening me, are you? I've been told you are a 'whack-a-doodle.'”

_Merely speculation._

“I see. Well… now that I've seen what you require, I'll be back regularly to check on you. And you will be seeing a lot of me.” She put a bit of steel into that last sentence. O'Malley gave her a look that was infuriatingly patronizing. Like the expression of someone who's just witnessed a child make a claim of how they're going to do something impossible.

She was learning to hate this man already.

Sheila left the little infirmary and locked the door behind her, before turning to face Lopez. Lopez interrupted her before she could speak.

" _You shouldn't be here._ "

" _It's nice to see you, too._ " Sheila tilted her head. " _Are you not happy to see me?_ "

" _It's not that. Words cannot say how happy I am to see you._ _But I'm not happy you're here. This isn't like your old hospital, Sheila. These people are dangerous._ "

“ _I'm capable. You're not going to start with the 'precious flower' nonsense too, are you?_ ”

“ _I know you're capable. It's not strength I'm worried about. It's the fact that these are people who don't care how a fight ends. It's the fact that a doctor has already been disemboweled and I can't stand the thought of that happening to you. It's the fact that these people will kill you if they get the chance._ ”

“ _I know there's risk. But the rewards outweigh it, Lopez. This way I can see you regularly. I can make sure you have proper medical attention. You're at risk, too._ ”

“ _I committed the crime, Sheila. Risk comes with that._ _I don't want you getting hurt just to provide better medical care._ "

“ _While that's very important… it's actually the 'seeing you more' part that helped me make this decision._ ”

" _That's—_ "

" _Just listen to me for a second. You've been gone for only a couple of months. But just that has been... been very difficult for me. It's been worse for you, I'm sure. But even so... even if you're not in here for life, you're going to be in here for the next twenty or so years. I don't know if I can maintain a relationship for that long if we only see each other once every couple of weeks with a glass screen between us._ " Sheila reached over and took Lopez's hand. " _I love you more than anything. But that's just not enough. So... if staying here, in danger of being attacked, is what it takes to be near you... then it's worth it._ "

Lopez frowned, as their fingers intertwined. " _Nothing is worth that to me._ "

" _This is my choice, Lopez. Sorry, but I'm here to stay._ "

 

* * *

 

"Hey! Caboose, wait up! ...Jeez, you walk really fast."

Caboose turned around to see Andy hurrying towards him. He slowed down, but didn't stop.

“I cannot play games now, Andy. I have to check on Church.”

"It's not that. I gotta talk to you about that fuckwit Tucker."

"That's a nasty word."

"Eh, don't be a baby. Anyhow... can you slow down for a minute? You walk too fast. What do you want me to do, roll after you?”

"Okay. But I need to check Church, so this has to be really fast." Caboose stopped, but kept bouncing on his feet. “Okay. What were you saying about Tucker?”

"Right. He's a douchebag."

"Yes. I know. Was that all?"

"Nah, I just thought it was a good starting point. See, he's being kind of a two-sided dickass. He's been lying to you and Church and helping the guys that you don't like. He's a traitor. So I hear."

"Tucker... is a tractor?"

"Not a fucking tractor, a traitor. Traitor. Traaaaaaaitooooooor."

"That is silly. Church believes Tucker, and Church knows everything."

"Thought you'd say that. But listen to me for a moment, alright? Tucker's a liar. A good one. That's what conmen do, he'd be fucking shit if he couldn't do that. So... maybe Church knows most things, but he could be tricked by someone who says lies all the time."

"But Church is smart. He would not believe Tucker if he lied." Caboose tilted his head. "Who said Tucker was lying?"

"Uh. Everyone?"

"Everyone? That's a lot of people." Caboose looked thoughtful for a moment, or at least the closest to thoughtful he ever got, before smiling. "Well, they must be mistaken. Because Church would know. He is good at knowing things."

"Alright, whatever. I tried. Hey, you wanna blow up some shit with me later? I just need some more flammable liquid, it'll be awesome."

"But last time hurt."

"Eh. That happens. Can't make an omelette without blowing up a few eggs."

"...I like eggs."

"Me too.”

 

* * *

 

"Fuck off!"

"No!"

"Fuck off!"

"No!”

The arguing between Church and Tucker had long since lost any comprehensibility, and they were now stuck in a loop that had been going for the last few minutes. Tucker was standing in his cell, trying to avoid looking at Church by rearranging Junior's pictures. Church was standing just outside the cell.

"Fuck off!"

"No! And stop telling me to!" Church snapped.

"I'll stop telling you to fuck off once you've fucked off!"

"I'm not fucking off until you tell me why you're suddenly such a douchebag! Or at least explain why you don't want the fucking protection!"

"I ain't saying shit, now fuck off!"

"You're being stupid. What's the big deal?"

"I. Don't. Need. Protection. I'm not a fucking delicate flower, don't go treating me like I'm some... girly bitch-boy like Dye-Job."

"What does Dye-Job have to do with this?" Church shouted. Then he went quiet. Tucker chanced a look at him, and saw a flicker of comprehension cross his face. “...Oh shit. Shiiiit. What did Donut say to you?”

“Oh, nothing! Nothing except a load of shit about gay fantasies and you having a boner for me or something.”

“...Fuck! FUCK! I'm gonna strangle him!”

“Ugh, feel free to. Like I needed that in my head. But there. It's fucking out there, now.” Tucker turned away from Junior's pictures and leaned against the wall, staring Church down. “So, is it true? Or is it bullshit? Because if it's just some bullshit fantasy of Donut's that he made to jerk off to or whatever, then say so.”

Church didn't reply. He looked down, reaching up to rub the back of his neck absently. He wasn't looking at Tucker, and his face was getting redder.

...Fuck. Fuck, it was true.

“Shit,” Tucker muttered.

“Shit,” Church concurred.

Tucker crossed his arms and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. His voice was weirdly calm, contrasting with the fact that internally he was starting to freak out because, jesus, this was not what he wanted to hear. “Thought you were fucking straight.”

Church made an irritated noise before muttering, "I am. Maybe. I don't know. Only... only person I ever did anything with was Tex."

"Well, she's practically a dude, so that probably counts," Tucker joked halfheartedly. It came out flat and neither of them laughed.

"I don't fucking know what's going on either, alright?" Church was still looking anywhere but at Tucker. "I dunno, maybe I've just been in here too long or some shit."

“Ugh, god.” Tucker pressed his hand to his face for a moment, eyes shut, before facing Church with a glare. “Why me, then? I mean, okay, whatever, you're gay. Whatever floats your boat. And yeah, alright, I'm fucking awesome in the looks department and I guess I get this more than you wanting to fuck Dye-Job, but god! Why me?”

“I told you, I don't fucking know!”

“How can you not know?!”

“Because I don't! It's not like I woke up one day and decided, 'hey, let's have weird feelings for that annoying con-artist.”

“Fuck you. And no, don't say anything like 'you wish' or 'that's your job' because it fucking isn't!”

“I wasn't going to say any of that!”

“Well… good!”

“Yeah, good!”

“Fine! ...Wait, no, it's not fine! God, it's weird! Why'd you have to make it weird?!”

“I didn't mean to! It's Donut's fault!”

“It's Donut's fault you're gay for me?!”

“No, I… that's not what I—“

“What are you gonna say next, that it's also his fault you're an asshole?”

“Leave assholery out of this!”

“Then leave Donut out of this!”

“I didn't mean to bring him into it, I just—aaaagh!” Church yelled.

Tucker opened his mouth to yell something else—he didn't even know what, he just needed to shout—but then Church, after shouting in frustration, dived forward. Tucker thought Church was going to punch him for a second, but instead hands found their way to Tucker's face, and suddenly Church was kissing him.

Tucker's brain short-circuited for a moment, apart from a quiet loop of 'shit, shit, shit' going on somewhere in the back. It was a hard kiss. Scratchy and kind of tickly in that way that girls weren't, and Church didn't smell like a girl either. Girls smelled nice and flowery and Church smelt like cheap soap and sweat, and—

Fuck, this was just so wrong.

So Tucker pushed him away, pulled one fist back and smashed it right into Church's jaw. He could throw a punch, and it sent Church toppling back, tripping over the end of the cot and landing on the hard stone floor. Tucker felt a tiny surge of concern—he hadn't meant to knock Church over, he'd just wanted him to back off—but it was immediately swamped by anger.

“Jesus… where'd you learn to punch like that?” Church muttered. He touched his cheek. His fingers came away with blood. He'd scraped it against the ground.

“You fucking… fuck!” Tucker snarled at him, fists raised. “You don't just—you don't do that! You don't just kiss people in the middle of arguments, that's fucking…” Tucker wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I did not give you fucking permission to do that!”

“It ends arguments in the movies!”

“This isn't the movies, you idiot!”

“Church?”

Both Church and Tucker turned to see Caboose standing there, just outside the cell. Caboose stared, wide-eyed, at the scene. Church lying on the floor, blood trickling sluggishly down his face. Tucker standing over him, fists raised.

Caboose's stare went from surprised to accusing. He pointed at Tucker.

“Tractor!”

 

* * *

 

“Why would you choose invisibility? Sure, invisibility is cool and all, but—“

“Think about it, Simmons. If I had invisibility, I could nap wherever I wanted and no-one could stop me!” Grif said, as he and Simmons walked back towards the cells. “I'd be completely unstoppable.”

“I think it'd be the opposite.”

“Totally stoppable. Already stop—“

"TUCKER!"

Both Grif and Simmons heard that before Tucker came sprinting towards them.

"Move, move, move!" With that, Tucker flashed past them. Before they could even go 'the fuck is going on?' Caboose ran past them as well, screaming something about scraping the black parts off toast.

"The fuck?" Grif muttered.

Then Church dashed past them, yelling "Caboose! Stop it, you fucking crazy—" He was gone before they could hear the rest of what he was about to say.

Grif and Simmons just stared after them for a moment. They looked at each other. Then they shrugged and continued walking, returning right back to the previous conversation.

 

* * *

 

Tucker was a fast runner. Very fast. It was hard to keep him in sight, let alone actually catch him. But he would have to slow down eventually. And Caboose wasn't letting him go this time.

Tucker was still sprinting at full speed, but then he let out a short, pained gasp. His hand briefly clutched his ribs, but he kept running.

"Slow down! It will be much quicker that way!" Caboose whined, feet pounding on the ground. They were past the cells and coming up to the laundry room. Tucker was running for the yard, where the guards would protect him. Caboose could not let that happen.

Tucker stumbled just a little bit. Again, he grabbed at his chest. His breaths were coming heavier. Raspier. Miller had hurt Tucker there. Maybe it still hurt. It was enough for Caboose to catch up with him, ramming Tucker in the back with his shoulder and knocking him to the ground.

“Fuck! Caboose, what the fuck?!” Tucker wheezed, trying to crawl away.

Caboose planted his foot in the small part of Tucker's back, so he could not run away again. Tucker didn't look like he could get up, anyway. He was holding his ribs again, and it sounded like it was hard for him to breathe. But better to be safe than sorry. That was what Mama always used to say.

_Mama would not like this._

Caboose frowned, but otherwise ignored the thought. The rules were different if he was hurting a bad person. And Tucker was a very bad man, he was a lying tractor. Caboose pushed Tucker onto his back with his foot.

"Caboose?”

"I am getting rid of you. You are allowed to be mean and stupid and a liar... but you attacked Church. That means you have to be squished." As he said 'squished,' Caboose raised his foot and stomped on Tucker's chest. Tucker made a noise. A raspy, painful noise. His eyes bulged and he clenched up.

Before Caboose could do anything else, however, someone jumped at him from behind, wrapping their arms around Caboose's neck and dangling off him ineffectually. It was Church.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?!” Church screamed at him.

“It's okay, Church. Tucker is a tractor,” Caboose said reasonably.

“What did I tell you? Protect Tucker, you asshole! This is the opposite of protecting!"

"Don't... fucking... need it..." Tucker rasped from the ground.

"Shut the fuck up, Tucker,” Church snapped back, legs waving in the air as he continued to dangle from Caboose's back.

Caboose pouted. "He has brainwashed you."

"What the fuck?”

"He is a bad man! And he has brainwashed you, and he hurt you! And now he's making you try to stop me!"

“No, Caboose, he's not! He hit me, yeah, but it was my fault! I did something stupid, not him!”

"Of course you would say that. You are brainwashed," Caboose said.

"Fucking—"

"You should go see Sheila. I am sure she can fix brainwashing. Sheila can fix everything."

Caboose tried to peel Church's arms off, but he was being very clingy. After a couple of attempts, Caboose saw that Tucker was slowly climbing to his feet. He was clinging his chest with one hand, and his breathing was ragged. Caboose gave up trying to shake Church off and instead kicked Tucker again.

“Do not run,” Caboose said quietly.

“Caboose, stop!”

“Fuck you,” Tucker muttered. After a minute's pause, he added, “I fucked two of your sisters, so fuck them, rather—“ Caboose kicked him again, before shaking Church off roughly. It would all be for Church's good. He just didn't know it yet.

“Tucker, don't make it worse!” Church yelled.

“Oh, so I'm the one wrong here—fuck!” Caboose grabbed the back of Tucker's jacket and threw him into the wall, smashing Tucker's head into the bricks.

"Caboose! Stop it right now!" Church shouted, his voice breaking just a little from panic.

"Only if he stops brainwashing you!"

"He's not fucking brain—" Caboose smashed Tucker's head against the wall again. He looked dizzy, almost like he was about to pass out. "Okay, fine, I'm not brainwashed anymore! I've seen the motherfucking light! Now let go of him already!"

Caboose tilted his head, stared at Church for a moment. Then he said, "I do not believe you. I think Tucker brainwashed you into saying that."

"How the fuck could he brainwash me?!"

"He tricked you. He hurt you. I saw him. No-one hurts you, Church." Tucker's head hit the wall again, and this time Tucker stopped trying to thrash his way out of Caboose's grip. Caboose wondered if Tucker had fallen asleep, like Caboose did when he hit his head in the car accident. "If I have to not listen to you to keep you safe... then that is what I will do."

"No. No. No no no, don't you dare!" Church grabbed Caboose around the neck again, trying to pull him back. "Don't you fucking dare!"

"Jesus, what the fuck is going on?"

South had appeared in the corridor. For a split second, she took in the sight. Church trying to choke Caboose from behind, and Caboose trying to crush the head of a possibly unconscious Tucker. After that split second, she pulled out the pepper spray. Church let go of Caboose and backed away a split second before South sprayed Caboose in the face.

Suddenly it felt like his eyes were on fire, and Caboose couldn't see anything. He let go of Tucker to rub his eyes, but just made it worse.

“Owww! Ow, ow, why'd you do that?! Where did Tucker go? I will find you!”

 

* * *

 

South looked a little pale as she watched Caboose flail around in a murderous rage. "Crazy bastard. He was doing what I think he was doing, right?"

"He was about to start squishing heads like grapes, if that's what you mean," Church said, watching Caboose as well.

South shook her head. "What a nutter. Look, I can't restrain him by myself if he charges at me. I'm good, but kid's like a bull. Find Tex or someone. Someone who's not North. He's too soft on inmates, anyway."

"Fuck off, I'm not leaving Tucker here with... with…"

South let out an irritated sigh. “Are you the inmate or aren't you? ...Whatever, if he's after Tucker then, yeah, better get him out of here. I'll deal. Hey, Caboose! You're going to SHU, you hear me?”

Caboose shouted something, but it was incomprehensible. He was still rubbing his eyes, and his voice sounded watery.

Church nodded before kneeling beside Tucker and prodding him warily. "Tucker? You okay?"

Please be okay.

"Nrghhhhh..." Tucker groaned. He opened his eyes slowly. "Why's there three of you? One was annoying enough."

Thank god.

"Come on, asshole. You're going to the infirmary." Church tried helping him up, but Tucker stuck out a hand to stop him.

"Can fucking... manage it on my own..."

"Don't be stupid."

"Not being stupid. Being... being..." Tucker got to his feet, took a few steps forwards and immediately walked into the wall. "Ow."

Church rolled his eyes before slinging one of Tucker's arms over his shoulders. "Don't be such a pride-filled dumbass. Alright? This doesn't count as 'gay.'”

As they started to move towards the infirmary, Church glanced back at Caboose, who was still feeling around, trying to find them. South looked freaked out, but was nonetheless still standing there, holding the can of spray at the ready.

Church wanted to scream at Caboose so badly. Hell, he was so pissed off and disturbed that he wanted to strangle him. And Donut. And basically everyone. But that could wait. He had to make sure Tucker was okay, first.

In any case... they'd clearly just lost their protection.

 

* * *

 

Donut had been engaging in his habit of staring at the ceiling and thinking about all the much nicer colours it could be when the door swung open. He'd expected it to be Sheila. But instead, Church stomped in, dragging Tucker along with him. Tucker looked very dizzy and he was breathing weirdly, and Church looked even more pissed off than usual.

"Holy shit, what happened?"

"Shut the fuck up! Where's the doctor? It better not still be Wash!" Church snapped, guiding Tucker to the nearest bunk.

"She said she'd be back, she was just checking O'Mal—other patients. What happened? Did Miller punch him again? He's doing the funny breathing thing…"

"Well, no shit! Really? He's breathing funny? I couldn't fucking tell! Thanks for the fucking insight, you fucking dye-jobed squealer!"

Donut raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to be so..." Rather than using a word to explain, Donut waved his arms wildly, wiggling his fingers as he did so. "And when did I squeal?"

“Don't fucking play dumb, this is your fault to begin with!"

"What? How? I was up here, I didn't do anything."

"Guys, stop shouting at each other," Tucker mumbled. "Giving me a headache. I mean a worse one. But yeah, Dye-Job, it's your fault. If you hadn't blabbed about the gay thing—"

"Oh, that,” Donut said dismissively. “I thought you meant I blabbed about something important.” After a moment, he tilted his head. “...Wait. I blabbed about how Church wanted to bone you—"

"I never said I wanted to bone him!"

"—and that led to you being brought up here? I think there's a middle step I'm missing there. Did Church get all defensive and shove you? Or was there an epic, romantic confession and then you just fainted and hit your head from the sheer romantitude of it? Heroines in romance novels faint a lot, but they never hit their heads—"

"What the fuck?" Church yelled. "There was no fucking confessions."

"Actually, I think you shoving your tongue down my throat counts as a 'confession,'" Tucker muttered.

“About time,” Donut said.

“There was no tongue!” Church snapped.

“There might as well been!” Tucker yelled. Or tried to yell, but just that one sentence tailed off into coughing. After he recovered he continued. “And no, Donut, it wasn't 'about time.' It was the exact opposite of about time! I didn't fucking say he could shove his tongue down my throat, he just did!”

“...Oh.” Donut's expression got a lot chillier as he looked at Church. “You pushed it on him?”

“I panicked,” Church muttered.

“Doesn't make it better. I said confess your feelings, not force kisses on him.” Donut looked at Tucker. “...Wait. Okay, the scrape on Church's face makes sense now, but… god, Church, you didn't beat him up for rejecting you, did you?”

“I'm not an asshole! Caboose did that!”

“...What?”

"Thanks to you, now everything's gonna go to shit and to top it off, we have no fucking protection." He started pacing in circles. "I can probably blackmail or bribe someone else into supplying some protection… although it won't be as good."

"Don't need it, fuck off," Tucker said.

"Shut up, Tucker. Take the fucking protection."

"No. Don't treat me like I'm some... fucking precious little flower. I'm not made out of glass, douchebag."

"Oh, come on, Tucker. You're like plasticine. How many times have you gotten hurt now? You just... you're like a magnet for painful shit. Like Dye-Job. Except I actually give a fuck about what happens to you."

“Wow, rude,” Donut muttered.

"Fuck off, Dye-Job!"

"I can't!"

"Yeah, he's got an excuse to stick around and be annoying. You don't have any excuse, Church, so fuck off," Tucker snapped. He tried to sit up properly, but then groaned and covered his mouth. "Oh god, shit is spinning... Where's the bucket?"

Church rolled his eyes before locating the empty bucket and unceremoniously throwing it on Tucker's bunk.

"Look. I get it. You hate me. I fucked up. I shouldn't have kissed you. Just keep the protection, and I'll fuck off and leave you alone."

Tucker scowled. "Fine, whatever. Now fuck off."

"Fine. I... need to do some shit, anyhow." Church turned away from Tucker, headed towards the door. He was obviously trying to stay cool and maintain his 'I-don't-give-a-fuck' attitude. But Donut saw just a brief flash of the expression he was hiding from Tucker. A mix of guilt and sadness. Donut felt maybe an inkling of pity, but then he remembered that Church hadn't asked for permission to kiss Tucker—too similar to O'Malley—and then the pity faded, even if Church's intentions probably weren't as dark. Donut didn't have time to comment on it before Church was gone.

Tucker shifted a bit more, feeling around on the cot. "'S'too fucking bright. All... spinning and—ergh!" He grabbed the bucket. Donut averted his gaze, went back to staring at the ceiling, but he could still hear Tucker ejecting the contents of his stomach. After a while of this, Tucker wiped his mouth, placed the bucket next to the cot.

"Fucking ruined it, Dye-Job," he muttered bitterly. "Could have just kept your mouth shut, but noooo. Now shit's all weird between me and that douchebag, and on top of that I probably haven't got long to live, with Caboose after me and all that."

"I still don't understand. Why did Caboose hurt you, if Church was the one who fucked up?”

“Because it's Caboose, asshole. He thinks Church can't do any wrong.”

 

* * *

 

"Tex. I need a favour," Church muttered, once he'd found her leaning against one of the walls in the yard, keeping a look out.

"A please would be nice," Tex said, grinning slightly.

"Yeah, not happening. First off... I kinda lost the protection I had…"

"I heard. South made me take Caboose down to SHU. She was pretty freaked out, kept repeating the words 'fucking crazy.'"

“Yeah. ...Yeah, that's one word for it. Um… can you keep a watch on Tucker for me once he leaves the infirmary?”

"Why me? You got that whole blackmail thing going on."

"Yeah, but would you trust a jerkass criminal you were blackmailing? I mean, come on. ...I'm a jerkass criminal that you're blackmailing, and you don't trust me."

"Damn right I don't. Fair enough then." Tex returned to crossing her arms and staring out over the yard, watching Wyoming and Andy having some sort of argument, probably about the price of lighters or something. "I'll keep watch over your boyfriend when I can."

“Not my boyfriend.” Church frowned for a moment, then added, “If there was ever a chance I just royally fucked it up.”

“You're really good at that.” Tex stared off for a moment as Wyoming strolled past, humming 'God Save The Queen' under his breath for some reason. “I have to guard everyone, Church.”

“I know, but—“

“Listen. I'll try to keep an eye on Tucker. I know he's important to you, whatever he is.” Tex gave Church a sideways glance. “I never thought it was coincidence that you stopped trying to off yourself once you had him to talk to.”

“Yeah, well...” Church tailed off and shrugged. “Anyway, that's… not the big favor. I need another one. And this one's… sketchy.”

“Sketchy how? Because I have limits on how far I'm willing to bend the rules for you, asswipe.”

“I need to get into the shoe.”

“...Serious?”

“I just need to talk to Caboose. I'm not gonna kill him or anything. I just gotta make sure he doesn't attack Tucker again. I doubt South is gonna be hiding in a closet nearby next time."

Tex considered this. "No violence? Not that I care, except that if they find out I let you down there and then someone gets hurt, then I'm the one who's gonna be in deep shit."

“I'm not going to hurt him.”

“It's not him I'm worried about.”

“Caboose won't hurt me. If there's anyone in this prison he won't hurt, it's me. ...I think.”

 

* * *

 

O'Malley sat with his back to the door of the temporary infirmary, as Wyoming slid his piece of paper back to him.

"So, you're seriously thinking of escape, my old friend? Could be interesting."

_Yes. If Doc doesn't return, I'll have to find him and teach him a lesson._

"I see. Well, Lady Luck seems to have crawled into your infirmary cot, because your timing couldn't be better." Wyoming grinned widely. "Inspection. A bit over a week away. Security will be high in many areas... but in other places, it'll be almost non-existent. And the guards will be thrown off by the change in schedule. If you want to escape, that would be the best time. I can tell you where the weak links of the chain are. Perhaps I'll take the opportunity to leave this place, as well."

_Is a week enough time to plan an evil scheme?_

"Would it hurt to try? We're both on life sentences, after all. It's not gambling if you have nothing else to lose, old chap."

_Point taken. Very well. What strategies do you suggest?_

As they started sketching out the layout of an escape plan, O'Malley grinned. He felt alive for the first time in weeks.

 

* * *

 

Sheila didn't look very happy as she examined Tucker. She was tight-lipped and serious.

"How could he do this?" she muttered under his breath. "He knows how bad head injuries can get, how could he do this?"

Donut was curled up on his cot, watching. Lopez was sitting in the corner, looking bored and annoyed. Like he was thinking 'how could Tucker be so inconsiderate as to acquire a severe head injury when I want to spend time with Sheila?'

"Hm. None of your ribs seem to be broken. It's probably just the scarring from your previous injuries making you breathe so heavily. How badly does it hurt?"

"Feels like shit."

"On a scale of one to ten, how shit would you say? Never mind, we'll come back to those questions. Aside from whatever is happening with your ribs, you have also suffered a concussion. Not too severe, but I'll need to keep you here overnight at the least."

"Oh, come on," Tucker groaned. "Can I stay in a different room? I don't wanna stay in the same room as Dye-Job, he's gonna be talking about feelings and interior decorating and all that shit."

"The only other room we have set aside for medical purposes has O'Malley in it. We could put you in there, but I've been warned against leaving anyone in there. Would you prefer danger or being in the same room as Donut?" There was a pause. "Well—"

"I'm thinking!"

"I'm worse than O'Malley? Okay, now I'm offended."

"Fine, I'll stay. Jeez. But if my ears shrivel up during the night from Dye-Job's bullshit, I'm gonna be pissed.”

 

* * *

 

"Guess who's awesome? That's right. I'm fucking awesome. Fuck yeah." Andy grinned and plonked down next to Miller, holding his tray of mystery meat.

"Did I say you could sit down there? That's Jenkins' seat, he'll get pissy if you—"

"Hey, get out of my seat."

"Fuck you, I called dibs," Andy protested.

"No, you didn't," Miller pointed out.

"Well. Dibs. Now I did. In your face, Jenny."

"Jenkins. Not Jenny," Jenkins muttered, moving and sitting down, mumbling about his seat being taken.

"So, what's so awesome about you? You talk to Caboose?"

"Hell yeah. And at first it went shit. I said, 'hey, Tucker's a backstabbing douchebag.' And Caboose said 'no, he's not.' And then we parted ways."

"That's awesome? What qualifies as terrible?"

"I'm not finished." Andy took a long sip of apple juice, presumably for dramatic effect, before continuing. "So, that did go crap. But then I wandered back to my cell to put away the shit you gave me and—phwoosh!"

"Phwoosh?"

"Tucker goes running by, and Caboose is chasing him and calling him a tractor." At the confused expression on Miller's face, Andy added, "Tractor. Traitor."

"Did he kill him?" Miller asked. On one hand, he was really hoping Tucker had been crushed into a red smudge. On the other hand... he would be kind of depressed at not getting revenge on Tucker himself.

"No."

Miller yelped, because Andy wasn't the one who said that. He turned around. Wyoming was standing behind him, only inches away.

"Jesus, how long have you been—why didn't anyone say he was standing behind me?"

"It was funnier this way," Andy said.

"He made a 'stay quiet' motion at me. And you let my seat be taken," Jenkins added, through a mouthful of mystery stew.

"Some loyalty," Miller muttered. "He's not dead, then?"

"No. I overheard a conversation between Church and Tex. Your man hasn't been killed, although I summarized that he'd been injured badly. And the idiot has been placed in the shoe. You now have the freedom to murder Tucker whenever you like."

"Great." Miller made to get up, but Wyoming placed a hand on top of his head to stop him from rising.

"We're in quite a rush, aren't we? I should have been more specific. You'll have a free reign at him once he leaves the infirmary."

"Right."

"But, if I might be so bold as to suggest a time to exact your revenge..." Wyoming's fingers were tapping Miller's head. It was annoying, but Miller knew better than to tell Wyoming off for it. He was the best and one of the only channels for getting stuff from outside the prison. To annoy him was to cut that off. "I would suggest during the upcoming inspection."

"When security is tighter than ever? Are you outta your goddamn mind?"

"I don't believe I am, and the mad are often more aware of their own madness than many around them." Wyoming tapped his fingers twice against Miller's head. "There's going to be... a disturbance that day. It'll be the perfect moment. What do you say, chap?"

"I dunno. I'll think about it. Let me eat in peace, goddammit.”

"Very well. If you decide to cooperate, we will discuss it further. Andy, follow me. Let us walk."

"Huh? Okay." Andy picked up his tray of food and followed Wyoming, still eating. "What's up, old man?"

"You like explosions, don't you?"

"Fuck yeah."

"If I were to supply you with the proper materials... what is the biggest explosion you could make? And could you be persuaded to direct it somewhere that would benefit me?”

 

* * *

 

“Fifteen minutes enough?” Tex muttered, pushing Church past the shoe cells, making it look to any inmates who might be watching that she was dragging Church there, rather than Church offering to go.

“Should be. I hope.”

“Alright, then.” Tex stopped in front of Caboose's shoe cell and stuck the key in the lock. "Church?"

"Yeah?"

"Be ca—" Tex paused, then changed tack. "Don't do anything stupid."

Church gave her a small grin. “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

“From what you told me? Literally today.”

“...Right.”

Tex pushed the door open and gestured for Church to go in. Church stepped in and the door slammed behind him.

Caboose was sitting on the floor, legs pulled up to his chest. He blinked at Church a few times. His eyes were still red and irritated from the pepper spray. A few more blinks before he spoke.

"Church? Is that you?"

"The fuck do you think?"

"Are you still brainwashed?"

"I was never brainwashed, you fucking idiot!"

"That is a yes." Caboose frowned, hugging his legs a bit tighter. "You are probably going to stay brainwashed until Tucker falls down."

Church didn't sit, he just crossed his arms and glared down at Caboose. "What the fuck did you think you were doing back there?"

"Making Tucker fall down."

"Yeah, I saw. But why the fuck would you do that?"

"Because he hurt you. And brainwashed you. And is a nasty tractor."

"Where did you even get the word 'tractor' from?"

"Andy." Caboose nodded. "He said that Tucker was being a backstabbing tractor. And I said that was silly, but then I saw Tucker hurt you. Two and two make twenty-two, Church.”

"What. Do you ever listen to what you say?!"

"Yes. I have ears."

"Then use them for once. I said no attacking Tucker. I said that I don't give a shit about you protecting me, as long as you're making sure no-one's beating him up. Seriously, what the fuck were you playing at?!"

"I already told you. Tucker had to be smooshed. You are going around in circles."

"No, you are!" Church's voice was cracking slightly. "This always happens! You always ramble on about 'keeping your promises' and shit, but you always end up breaking them! I told you not to kill people, and then you crushed Phil's head. I told you to protect Tucker, you tried to kill him."

"That was different."

"What's next, huh? You gonna attack me next?"

"Of course not, Church. You are my best friend."

"Oh, and that's supposed to assure me, is it?" Church stopped and hesitated for a moment. Then he said, "You saying I'm your friend is supposed to make me feel all protected and shit? You started claiming Donut was your second-best friend right after you met him, didn't stop you from breaking his leg."

"That... that was…"

"What, did you tell your mother that she was the best parent ever just before shoving her down the stairs?!"

Until that point, Caboose had just looked mildly bemused about Church's shouting. But as soon as Church brought up his mother... before Church could continue ranting, Caboose grabbed his shoulders, shoved him against the wall.

"Do. Not. Talk. About. Mama," Caboose growled. "I did not do anything. She fell! You are brainwashed! Church would never say that!"

Church was a bit less certain that Caboose wasn't going to hurt him than he was a couple of minutes ago. Although, if it'd been anyone else that had brought up Caboose's mother in that way... well, then they'd probably be dead already.

_Now would be a good time to stop talking._

"You know what? I'm fucking saying it."

_Why don't you listen to your common sense any more?_

Church ignored the bitching of the rational part of his brain and kept talking.

"Sure. She fell, did she? Just like every other person you murdered. Wake the fuck up already!"

"Shut up! I did not do anything!" Caboose's grip was getting tighter, it was making Church's shoulders hurt. Caboose lowered his voice. "You... you believed me. I said I did not do anything, and you believed me."

"No, I pretended to believe you so you wouldn't turn me into a red smudge," Church said harshly. "But fuck it, I'm sick of humoring you. I can't pretend to believe you when you're trying to kill the only guy in this dump that I care about—and yes, that includes you. So here's a newsflash. You're mental. You're one of the most psychotic bastards I've ever met."

"Brainwashed!"

"I'm not brainwashed! You're the one who's an emotional timebomb!"

"Brainwashed! Brainwashed!"

"You're the one always attacking people! And everyone knows that, they're just too terrified of you going all psycho on them that they never mention it! Do you really think that all those people just 'fell over' around you on accident?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

"Someone's gotta say it! And I'm the only person who can say it without getting killed in the process! Hell, that might not even be true, if you can kill your mother than why the fuck wouldn't you kill me?"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Caboose screamed. He let go of Church's shoulders, only for the hands to clasp around Church's throat. "Be quiet! Stop lying!"

_Oh shit. He's really trying to kill me. Abort! Abort!_

"I'm not lying," Church said, forcing the words out despite the pressure on his throat.

_Are you trying to die, goddammit?! Fuck it, I'm gonna go live in a cave._

"Liar. Liar. You're brainwashed and lying and... and being mean..." Caboose muttered. His voice kept cracking. Screws were definitely loose. Looser than usual.

"Look... look at what you're doing." Church reached up, gripped Caboose's wrist and tried to pull the hand away. Didn't work. "Look at what you're about to do."

There was a few seconds when Caboose stared at him. Then his eyes slowly traveled down, to the hands clasped around Church's throat. Then suddenly he let go. Church immediately moved to the other side of the cell, massaging his throat. Caboose's expression had changed from pissed to horrified.

"Oh my god," he said quietly, looking down at his hands. "I just... I was not thinking... oh god, I am sorry…"

"Yeah? You weren't thinking? That just makes the attempted murder alright then, doesn't it?" Church snarled. "See? You're fucking insane, you team-killing fucktard!"

"I... I'm sorry…"

"I bet you are. You starting to figure out who is the 'tractor' here? Because it's not Tucker."

Caboose kept staring down at his hands. And Church knew that he'd finally gotten through Caboose's thick skull. Because Caboose looked completely shattered. Church had seen Caboose look that defeated once before. Seven years ago. But back then, it had been because of O'Malley. No… it had been before O'Malley, even. It'd been when Caboose first entered the prison.

Without a word, Caboose sat down again, curled up in the same position he'd been in before.

Church sat down on the other cot, waiting for when Tex would come and let him out. The next few minutes passed in complete silence. The only movement was Caboose opening and closing his hands, that same look on his face.

Church had to wonder if the truth had been too much for him.


	17. Chapter Thirteen: Chatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker has to listen to Donut talk, which results in Donut having to listen to Tucker talk and muddle through his feelings. Wyoming, O'Malley and Andy plot nefarious schemes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. May be the shortest so far, even though I moved a scene from the next into it. It's partially because I deleted a full scene that was lengthy but unamusing and pointless.

"And that's why it's the best crockpot recipe ever. Despite the inclusion of cheesecake, but I didn't really have anything in the fridge besides it and a few scattered things because my roomie had eaten everything and I hadn't gone shopping in forever. But, seriously, that recipe was awesome. It could melt your face. But in a fun way. I guess a close second would be—"

"Oh god, shut up!" Tucker groaned, covering his face. "Seriously. Did you eat a motor or something? Shut up, you're making my head hurt even more. It's a bitch already, it doesn't need your help."

"But I've been storing it up!" Donut whined.

"I don't care. You've got the most annoying voice I've ever heard. And you smell like a garbage bag!"

"Look, it's hard to shower when I can't move."

"Is it too late for me to go stay in O'Malley's room?" Tucker asked Sheila, who was at the other end of the infirmary, sorting out the evening's medication. Often, she would stop and make some notes on the list of meds, trying to fix all of Doc's mistakes. Lopez was sitting there as well, occasionally making conversation with Sheila, although otherwise they were both quiet.

"Definitely too late."

"Fuck. This is the worst. Obviously Caboose managed to kill me. It just so happens that Hell looks like the infirmary."

"I miss showers," Donut sighed.

"If you go into much more detail with this, I will name you as the main cause of despair in my suicide note."

Donut pulled a face at him. “Jerk.”

“No shit, dude. I spent like my entire life conning people out of shit. That speaks for itself.”

“Hey, maybe you had a hard life for all I know, if you needed the money so badly.”

Tucker snorted. “Yeah, sure. I'll pull a big sob story about drunk parents, sexual abuse, drug addiction and my life being a trainwreck out. Even if it was true, it wouldn't change the fact that I'm an asshole, would it? Some people are just assholes.”

Donut shrugged. “True.” After a pause, he added, “Was any of that true?”

“You'd have to read it back to me. I just know that if I keep talking you have to shut up.”

“Aha. You clever son-of-a-bitch.”

 

* * *

 

"I dunno, man. Don't get me wrong, it sounds badass," Andy said, after Wyoming had finished outlining what he wanted him to do. "Really badass. And I'd love to get some of those dick-munching guards in the blast. But how the fuck—"

"I wasn't aiming for fatalities. That would draw, as you say, 'too much heat from the fuzz.'"

"You're behind the times, old man. Haven't heard anyone say fuzz in forever. Unless they were driving a 1950's car and trying to be cool."

"Ah. Well, my point still stands. If you can't help getting some of the guards in whatever explosion you cause, then fine. But don't... go out of your way to injure them."

"Hey, that's not even part of my problem! I don't have the stuff for that kind of explosive."

"What do you need?"

"A long fucking list of things. I can make homemade explosives, sure. But some of the ingredients ain't exactly easy to come by in this hole."

"Tell me what you need. And I will find it."

"Oh, come on. I know you're awesome at smuggling shit in, but—"

"I am better than 'awesome.' Smuggling a bottle of whiskey and a screwdriver in, or smuggling the ingredients for explosions. The principle is the same, really. Same process, even if the risk is slightly higher. And... when a chap spends a few decades in a prison, he will learn the ins and outs of the trade. And if that chap also spends ten years as a prison guard before that, then that's more... informative... than a hundred years on the other side of the fence."

"Sure, whatever. You give me the ingredients, you got your fucking explosion. Can't promise I won't kill anyone, though."

"I'll settle for that.”

 

* * *

 

"Andy is definitely in, as is Miller and his little gang. That's enough of a start, is it not?" Wyoming asked, sitting in front of the door that separated him and O'Malley.

He waited until a piece of paper was shoved underneath the door.

_Not enough. I'm not taking second chances.  
_

"What would you suggest?"

_I need those religious nutcases. They are completely barking mad, but they're competent and less likely to pursue their own grudges. They simply attack anything blue._

"Ah, but the majority of them are still in SHU," Wyoming said.

_Then get them out of the shoe._

"Hm. Might be manageable. The warden is rather insane."

_Exactly. Use that to your advantage._

 

* * *

 

"I didn't hear much screaming," Tex remarked, as she prodded Church in the back with her nightstick, guiding him back to the cafeteria where dinner was being served. "Caboose didn't kill you then?"

"No. He did. I'm completely dead right now," Church said, voice perfectly deadpan. "Isn't it obvious? What with the rotting flesh, dead eyes..." He felt his arms and put on expression of mock surprise. "Oh wait."

"You're a dick."

"I know. Anyway, the 'talk' we had was over pretty quick."

"And?"

"I think I broke him. But fuck it, douchebag deserved it. Tucker still up in the infirmary?"

"I guess. Haven't seen him." Tex stopped just outside the cafeteria. "So, what are you gonna do? You got no protection."

"Blackmail? I know some shit about that angry guy who works in the cafeteria."

"Really? Your funeral."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, just for starters... I don't really think you should rely on a guy who gets angry if people so much as look at him wrong. I can do the job better. I'm keeping an eye on you as much as possible."

"No, you're keeping an eye on Tucker."

"Screw Tucker. Besides, I can watch both of you." Tex's fingers drummed against her nightstick. "Why do you think I chose a job here?"

"Because you were fired from the police?"

"Shut up. Look, I did want a security job anyway. But I picked here because I'd rather you didn't die, thanks. Especially now, it'll flush all the hard work of keeping a rat like you alive down the crapper. I mean it's not the only reason I work here, it's kinda like the shitty three-day old cherry on a shit sundae, but a perk's a perk."

"Yeah. It's nice to know you care," Church muttered.

 

* * *

 

"Ten minutes until curfew. Am I allowed to leave after that? The warden was a bit vague about the details," Sheila said, after checking her watch. Lopez was still sitting there. He hadn't even left to get any food.

"I think so. Doc usually left not long after curfew," Donut said. "Same with most of the trillion doctors that have gone through here. Trillion being..." Donut counted his fingers briefly. "Four."

"Can I go back to my cell? Please?" Tucker pleaded.

"Sorry, you have to stay."

"Damn."

Sheila quickly tidied up the files she'd been looking through before walking towards the door. Lopez made to follow her, but stopped about halfway. He turned and looked at Donut. Slightly frowning.

"Uh. Yes?" Donut asked. He was kind of waiting for Sheila and Lopez to leave so that he could try and walk again without getting shouted at. Lopez frowned at him some more, before turning back to Sheila.

" _I need to talk to_ _Donut._ "

"Uh. I don't see a problem with that, I suppose. Is this private? Should I wait outside?"

" _I... would prefer that._ "

"Okay, I trust you. But don't take too long, Lopez." Sheila left, closing the door behind her.

"So, what's going on? I mean, uh... should I be talking in Spanish?"

" _Don't bother. You'll embarrass both of us._ "

"Rude."

" _Just be quiet._ "

"Sure. Zipping it." Donut made a zip motion across his mouth.

"How come you never listen to me when I tell you to shut up?" Tucker complained. Donut just grinned and motioned at his mouth to show that he couldn't talk. "You're a douchebag, Dye-Job. Douche. Bag."

Lopez waited until it was clear that no-one else was going to say anything more before talking.

" _O'Malley wants you dead._ "

"I'm totally shocked to hear that," Donut said sarcastically.

"Aha, you spoke.”

"Shut up, Tucker."

"Oh, so now I'm the one who's too chatty?"

"So, he told you this?" Donut asked Lopez.

" _Yes. H_ _e asked me to do it._ "

Donut eyed Lopez before sitting up slightly more. A set expression crossed his face.

“Are you going to try?” His tone was a little afraid, but also determined.

“ _I would rather not give Sheila more work or troubles to worry about. And that aside… I owe you._ ” Lopez reached up, fingers touching his throat. There were bruises there from when Caboose attacked him. " _You stopped that monkey from killing me. And you had no reason to, after I helped O'Malley send you here._ "

"I don't like people dying."

" _A murderer doesn't like people dying._ _Weird_ _._ "

"It was self-defence!"

" _I don't care. I don't like you. But I do owe you._ _Given the choice, I will make no move on your life._ _But. I've heard of the sorts of things O'Malley does._ " Lopez jammed his thumb at the door that Sheila had just passed through. " _If I disobey him, and as a result he threatens her... then I don't care what I owe you. I will kill you. If it's to protect her, I will kill you and not regret it at all._ "

Donut mulled this over before nodding. “Understandable. Kind of sweet, really.”

" _Murder is the new flowers,_ " Lopez said heavily.

"Hey, any love in this prison is awesome. Seriously, there's a lack of it. It's depressing. Need more consensual love going on. There's you and Sheila, there's Grif and Simmons… gotta be someone else, right?"

" _Who cares? Look._ _I've warned you. If Sheila ends up in danger because I didn't kill you, then I'm coming back and finishing the job. For now... you're safe. At least from me._ "

"Cool. But if you're gonna kill me, can you wait until I can walk? I think the field would be more even if I wasn't confined to this bed.”

" _If circumstances allow it._ "

"Okay. Thanks, I guess."

Lopez turned and left. Donut heard just a little bit of conversation with Sheila before the door closed.

"Who's trying to kill you?" Tucker asked, once they were gone.

"What do you care?"

"That's been, like, my job in this prison for the past ten years. Find out as much as possible about everyone. That's just what I do, you know that."

"Why? If you're not hanging around with Church any more then there's no point. Is there?"

Tucker blinked a few times, before settling back on his pillow. "Right. Forgot about that." He stared at the wall for a while, looking mildly troubled. Donut watched for a while (and Tucker was so stuck in his own thoughts that he didn't notice, or he would have told Donut to stop being creepy) and shrugged before sitting up on his bunk and sliding his legs off the edge.

Time to practice walking. The bunk was getting kind of painful. Donut hoped he wasn't getting bedsores or anything. He put his feet on the ground.

He managed, this time, to stay on his feet. He was wobbly, but as long as he didn't move at all he could stay standing in one place. It still ached. Maybe it would always ache, maybe it wouldn't. But at least it wasn't horrible nerve-wracking pain. Not like before.

"Hell yes!" Donut yelled happily, making a triumphant gesture. "I can stand, I can—whoa!"

The waving of victorious fists had been enough to set him off-balance, and he fell over. It was enough to snap Tucker out of his thoughts.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Walking? Duh."

"That didn't look like walking. That looked like falling."

"Your face is falling."

"That makes no sense."

"Neither does your face. ...I'm tired, shut up.”

 

* * *

 

Church paced his cell. It was that time between curfew and when the lights were turned off. When most prisoners did things like read books or letters or jerk off. Or do anything they considered a good use of time.

Normally, during this time, Church would just pace the cell anyway. Couldn't be bothered reading. And what letters would he ever get? Who would write? He supposed jerking off was an option, but it felt awkward with the lights on.

If he did anything but pace during this time, he would usually talk to Tucker or Caboose. Normally unwillingly. Both of them were, for the most part, impossible to shut up. And a lot of nights, Church had wished, more than anything, that they would somehow lose their voices and he would be left in blissful silence.

Church kept pacing. He kept pacing until the lights were eventually turned off. And even when that happened, he still kept pacing. Pacing, pacing, pacing.

It was so freaking quiet.

After a long, long time, he came to a halt. He stared through the bars at Tucker's cell. He could see the crayon drawings that were plastered all over Tucker's wall from where he was standing.

So quiet.

He looked towards Caboose' cell. He couldn't see inside it from where he was. That stupid toy pigeon was probably in there. Maybe. Or had he left it with Dye-Job? Caboose had rambled something about Donut needing it, but that'd been ages ago…

He looked towards Tucker's cell again. Soon, Tucker would be asleep. If he was sleeping on his stomach, he would breathe funny. But either way, Church would usually be able to hear him. He couldn't hear anything now. Of course he couldn't, not unless he suddenly gained magical powers that allowed him to hear what was going on in the infirmary.

He'd always wanted it to be quiet. Now that it was quiet... now that it probably wouldn't be the same kind of noisy it'd been in the past... suddenly all that noise, from the breathing right down to the stupid conversations…

Suddenly the silence was almost unbearable. And the stupid conversations didn't seem so bad.

 

* * *

 

"Can't you just go to sleep already?" Tucker groaned, hands over his face. Donut was still attempting to walk, and had been doing so for the past hour.

"I need to get practice in. I'm sure the injuries are healing enough for me to move around, I just need to get used to it. I keep falling over." Donut rested against the wall. If he wasn't leaning on something, he'd topple over pretty quickly again. "Just go to sleep."

"I can't go to sleep, because you're thumping away like next door neighbors on Viagra."

"Gross."

"And so what if you learn how to walk again quickly, anyhow? You'll be able to walk to the yard, big freaking deal."

"If I can walk, I can learn how to run again. I learn how to run, I can learn how to fight. I don't want to get caught again. I'm sick of getting the shit kicked out of me.” Donut moved one foot forwards and let go of the wall. He was wobbly, but he wasn't falling.

“Yeah… I know that feeling,” Tucker sighed. "But it won't work. If fast feet was all that was needed to survive in this hole, I wouldn't be lying here with a fucking concussion, would I?"

"Didn't say it was all I need. But it'll help." Donut took another step. That one was too much, but he managed to sit down on the cot quickly before falling over.

"Can't you just give up and wait for your stupid injuries to heal?"

"No." Donut pushed himself back into a standing position again. "If I gave up whenever things got difficult, then I would have kicked the bucket when my roommate attacked me."

"Why couldn't he have finished the job?" Tucker muttered to himself. "Can't you try walking when I'm not here?"

Donut rested against the wall again, thinking. "I could. But you know... what's in it for me?”

“You're an asshole.”

“I know.” Donut went quiet for a bit, still testing his feet, before looking at Tucker with a frown. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I'm… I'm sorry that Church turned out to be an asshole.”

“Church has always been an asshole.”

“Yeah, but not a… 'kiss without permission' asshole.”

“True. I'd be annoyed anyway, though.”

“Yeah? Because you're not into him? I mean, I figure you bang dudes anyway and it'd make more sense to bang a dude you're actually cool with—”

“Stop.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, I only fuck dudes because I got no other option. Would you go without sex even if there were only chicks around?"

Donut wrinkled his nose. "Uh, God gave us right hands for a reason, Tucker."

"Well, yeah, if you want to be a no-scoring bitch about it. Besides, even then there's a difference between fucking dudes and fucking Church. Dudes are just one-time dudes that I don't get attached to and never talk to again. I don't need to know that the, like, one dude I actually like talking to wants that shit, too.”

“Really?”

“Do you bang Caboose?”

Donut pulled a face. “That's different. He's enormous and I'm not ready to be crushed to death.”

“I don't have to listen to whoever I fuck yammer at me after. Y'know? We get shit done and we move on once it all gets awkward. Which it inevitably does pretty much immediately. That goes for chicks, too. You bang them, and then they want to talk about girly shit.”

“So, thus… if you bang the guy you can actually talk to… it'll get awkward?”

“I guess? I don't fucking know! Romance is weird. I hate it. Why can't the world just be, like… the bodies with no heads attached—that came out wrong.”

“Ew.”

“Shut up.”

Donut actually did shut up for a bit. But it seemed like Tucker was sorting through his own thoughts, because after a while he spoke up again on its own.

“Bad idea, anyway!”

“What? Having sex with headless people?”

“Not that! I mean, yeah, but that's not what I meant! Let's say that Church was not an asshole, and I was super gay, and I was fine with all that girly lovey bullshit.”

“Love isn't girly—“

“Let's say everything ended up okay, and we ended up cuddling or whatever the hell Church wants out of this. Say I'm into it. Say I stay into it. Say parole rolls around and I'm really fucking into it. What the hell do I do then?”

“What—“

“Church is never leaving here. What do we do, then? We go our separate ways, probably after yelling at each other. Like, there's an expiration date before it even starts, y'know? Or worse, I get so attached that I decide I want to stay in prison.”

“Do you think that would happen?” Donut asked.

“Fuck no, I don't think that! But you never know. People get institutionalised over less than sex.” Tucker scowled at the ceiling, wiggling his fingers irritably as he tried to put his words together. “Like… there's no pluses! It's all bad shit!”

“Okay.”

“All of it.”

“I heard you, Tucker,” Donut sighed.

There was a short pause before Tucker added, “Also, it's Church. And that's just weird.”

“Mmhm.”

“Oh my god, are you even listening to me?”

“I am!” Donut said. “I'm just… it's late.”

“Hey, you're the one walking around and you're the one who got me into this mess. You have invited yourself into my problems.”

“I regret everything.”

“Fuck right you do!”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Sarge trudged through the prison holding a cup of black coffee. Staring at the walls and making sure there was nothing horribly wrong with them. He didn't want Vic to come over here and discover that there was, say, a secret tunnel in the walls hidden by a large pin-up poster. No tunnels in his prison, nope. None at all.

As he plodded around, occasionally knocking his coffee mug against the walls to make sure that they were solid, he heard a voice behind him.

"Good morning, warden."

"Wyoming? Ain't you peddling your wares in the yard this morning? Better not be trying to sneak anything illegal in."

"I'm not trying to do anything of the sort. I'm simply helping keep the inmates calm by making sure they've all got their perfectly legal goods keeping them happy. Cigarettes and snack cakes and the like."

"The snack cakes is Grif, I bet. That lazy, fat bastard."

"Speaking of my business, I was curious as to whether you have any spare coffee in your office? I'd be quite willing to pay for it. There's been a large demand for coffee as of late. and the commissary only sells it in separate satchels."

"Well, I am a little short this month… I suppose I could scrape together some coffee, but you're gonna have your haggling cut out for you."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Wyoming said smoothly, falling into step behind Sarge. "How are the preparations coming for the inspection? I assume you're confident about your prison being perfectly disciplined?"

"Of course I am! The details are under wraps from you and all the other scum in this prison. But trust me, no goddarn troublemakers are gonna start anything under my nose, or they'll get forty years on the electric chair."

"Oh yes, I heard that little spiel. Quite inspiring, if I do say so myself." Wyoming smiled slightly before removing a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Smoke?"

"Don't mind if I do.”

Wyoming waited for Sarge to light his cigarette before he continued. "Of course... the fact that a large section of the prison population is in SHU does put... something of a dent in your credibility."

"How so? They're in there because I'm disciplining them!"

"Of course, of course, I'm not questioning your methods. But surely it would look better if no-one was in SHU at all? That would imply that your disciplinary methods were so good that no-one behaved out of line at all. That the incidents that lead people to SHU never even take place because you're that good at preventing them."

"That so?" Sarge puffed on his cigarette for a few moments, before saying, "There are quite a lot of troublemakers down there."

"Most of which have been down there for weeks. I'm sure the discipline has taken effect. And if one of them goes, shall we say, haywire during the visit... well, it'll give your guards a chance to show off how good at dealing discipline they are. It's a win-win situation. Locked down there, what good are they doing? Not to say you don't continue the punishment, maybe pile on some extra unpaid hours of labor?"

"Well. Can't deny you got a point. Lazy bastards are doing nothing but relaxing down there in those cells anyway. They need some back breaking labor handed out to them."

"Indeed they do. Back breaking labor is quite character building," Wyoming said. He lit his own cigarette. "Do you think I could also purchase your copy of yesterday's newspaper? I missed the crossword."


	18. Chapter Fourteen: Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyoming has a talk with the Red Zealot and with Washington. Donut finally gets out of the infirmary.

"Well, you don't seem to be getting any worse. I suppose you're free to leave, but you need to get plenty of rest and sleep. You're off laundry duty for the next week at least," Sheila said to Tucker, after a brief check-up.

"Great. Can I go now? I'm sick of hanging around Dye-Job."

" Feeling's mutual, "  Donut said.

Once Tucker had left, Sheila seated herself on the end of Donut's cot.

"Now. Donut, I want to ask you a question."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Why were you lying on the floor when I came in this morning?"

"Uh. That? I was... doing my morning stretches?"

"Have you been trying to walk?"

"Yeah. A little. I got shouted at for trying too often before, especially when I was around Wash. He didn't like it. I mean, he doesn't like anything. But especially not anything to do with me. He's... mean."

"Concerning your walking... I think I can help with that. I've got experience in helping people walk again after injury. Did something similar with Caboose after he was in that coma, and you at least weren't in a coma for weeks so it shouldn't be nearly as difficult." Sheila tapped her chin thoughtfully a few times before climbing to her feet. "Okay. You want to try now?"

"Right now? Okay! Sooner the better, I am really sick of this ceiling. Did you know there's one hundred and seven cracks in the area above my cot?"

"That's... interesting."

"No, it isn't. It really, really isn't. But it's all I had to do, because there's no books in here any more. Doc used to have ones on Tai Chi, but they got kind of boring after a while, too.”

 

* * *

 

"Freedom! We have passed our trial of isolation and lived to bask in the sunlight bestowed upon us by His Holy Flappiness!" the Red Zealot cried out upon entering the yard. There was a general murmur of agreement from the other zealots that were following him. "We are one step further from this limbo and one step closer to the Flag!"

The zealot did not notice that someone else was walking just a bit behind the group of flag worshippers. He was too focused on the red flag flapping in the breeze, and the pole that it decorated.

The flag, for whatever reason, didn't seem so bright to him today. Normally it was vivid, more vivid than anything else, but it seemed duller today. The flag pole didn't glimmer with enough light. But he couldn't let his followers know he was unsettled.

"Now let us offer libations to His Holy Flappiness, so that he may guide our way and one day set us free of this concrete prison of trials and tribulations…"

"Perhaps that day may come sooner than you were thinking," a voice spoke up. Wyoming had followed the zealots all the way to the flag, and was now standing there, smoking a cigarette as per usual and smiling in a slightly smug way.

The Red Zealot frowned a little, approaching Wyoming. “Supplier. Bringer of items not bestowed upon us naturally by the gatekeepers. What is your business with us?”

"We share a mutual friend. A certain red-haired friend, if you catch my meaning."

"You are a... friend... of the holy flag's prophet and speaker?"

"Indeed.”

"You are not one of the red ones."

"I'm... neutral in the grander scheme of things. As you said, I am merely a supplier. However, I happen to know what your, erm, prophet is planning. And what role he wants you to play in it." Wyoming glanced around at the other flag worshippers before adding, "Let us walk. Just you and me. And I will explain what he wants done."

"Why can't the prophet tell me himself?"

"He's having... difficulties. Consider this a test of faith, if you will."

"A test? Very well, I will listen to your words." The Red Zealot waved his hand at the others. "Continue with your worship of the flag! I will return!"

The zealot followed Wyoming until they were out of earshot of both the other followers and the guards. Then Wyoming started to talk.

"It is vital that none of this reaches the guards."

"We do not speak to the gatekeepers unless it is of the utmost necessity, supplier! Ask us to be silent and we shall be silent, provided it is the wish of His Holy Flappiness."

"Yes. You see, your prophet... he is planning an escape."

"An escape? An escape from purgatory? Do you mean to say that he is to lead us into the red-tinted haven that His Holy Flappiness promised us?" the Red Zealot asked gleefully. He had dreamed of escape ever since he was sentenced here. It seemed like he'd been there for lifetimes, though in all actuality he'd only been in purgatory for six months.

"...Yes. Oh, yes, definitely. However, it's going to be a very difficult task and will require your utmost cooperation…"

Wyoming continued to talk for a long time, sharing details of what the zealots would have to do to achieve escape. A test of faith. The final test of faith, were the Red Zealot to succeed.

"So, what do you say, chap? Are you in?"

"I follow the Flag in his almighty crimson glory. If he has set this trial for us, then we have no choice but to follow. And follow we shall with utmost devotion!" the Red Zealot declared.

"Excellent."

"But... I must warn you, supplier. If you have been taking advantage of my faith, then we will not tolerate it." The zealot tried to bring himself up to Wyoming's height, despite his status as one of the smallest inmates. "If you have been deceiving us, then we shall offer you up to the flag as an apology, and your innards shall decorate his shiny pole."

"Much like the doctor, am I correct?"

"Yes. Much like."

"That seems fair enough. But that reminds me. The prophet has one more task for you, though he wishes it to be carried out by one of your men. But it must be someone you are willing to leave behind in the escape, should he be locked in isolation for this."

"What is his demand?”

"Another doctor has arrived. She must be dealt with. This is particularly important to him, as part of a... safeguard for if the escape fails. A... sacrifice to appease the Flag in case of failure, if you will."

"We will not fail."

"But if you do? In any case, I'm sure it would curry favour with... His Holy Flappiness."

"I see. We shall have a sacrifice!"

"Yes. But..." Wyoming briefly paused, making a motion with his hand like he was counting. "Wait two days. It's important to the prophet... for some reason."

"He works in mysterious ways."

"Yes. Mysterious.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker walked slowly. Moving too fast gave him a headache at the moment. The entire time, he was wary. To be honest, walking around by himself made him nervous. He wasn't exactly well-liked in this hellhole. What with all the conning and blackmailing. And now that he had no protection, well... it made one feel rather vulnerable to shivs being stuck in one's back.

As he considered how many people would probably enjoy stabbing him (Miller at the top of the list) he neared his cell. He wanted a nap, although how well he'd be able to sleep was up in the air. When he got closer, however, he saw movement in Caboose's cell.

That was not comforting. Wasn't Caboose supposed to be locked up in the shoe? What was he doing back out here? Was he going to attack again? Tucker edged a bit closer, trying to see what Caboose was doing.

He was just curled up on his cot, face hidden in his arms. Kind of looked like he was taking a nap, except that he kept fidgeting. Something seemed off about the whole thing. He wasn't clinging onto his pigeon, for one. That was sitting on the floor on the other side of the room. It looked like it had been thrown there.

When Tucker made to move back again, Caboose must have heard him. Because he looked up. Tucker froze, although he wasn't sure what good freezing would do if Caboose decided to try and kill him again. Running would make more sense. But Caboose didn't try to attack. He didn't even climb off his cot. He just stared. His eyes were red. He'd obviously been crying. After a long stretch of staring, he just covered his face again. No attack. No evil glare. Not even his usual cheerful greeting of 'hello, stupid Tucker.'

"He won't attack you," a voice muttered. Church had been lurking around in his cell, and was now sticking his head out.

"Yeah? What makes you so damn sure?" Tucker snapped, making sure not to look at Church.

"Because I said so, alright? I talked to him, and he ain't doing shit anymore. No protection. But none of you dying. You're welcome, by the way."

"Fuck you, I didn't ask for you to shove your nose in."

"Yeah? Well, too bad." Church retreated back into his cell, so that Tucker couldn't see him.

Tucker plodded back to his cot, as well. Pulled the thin sheets over himself and tried to sleep. He was exhausted, but it was impossible. He couldn't quite put his finger on why it was so difficult, but it definitely had something to do with the intense awkwardness in the air.

It almost made him miss the infirmary. ...Almost.

 

* * *

 

As good a smuggler as Wyoming was, it was inevitable that he would be caught sometimes. It was difficult to transfer goods to other inmates without running into a guard. Sometimes they would let him go. Most of the guards knew what Wyoming did, and just let it go because it was usually harmless things like cigarettes.

But Wash? He never let anything get past him. Even if it was harmless. Because if he let one thing get past him, and word spread... it ruined the fear he had going in the inmates.

"Are you smuggling illegal items into the cells again?"

Wyoming grinned at him. He was holding a small bundle of dirty laundry. He'd been carrying it past the cells until Wash stopped him. "I don't know what you're blathering about, Washington."

"Don't insult me by playing dumb. What's in the laundry pile? Unfold it, show me."

Wyoming didn't move, simply kept a friendly smile on his face. The smile was not improving Wash's mood. "Now, Washington. Would you deny an old man his small pleasures? It's merely a small bottle of good whiskey. Unorthodox, yes, but surely no harm will come from it. That's not enough to get even one man drunk. Just a small celebration. My grand-niece happens to be graduating from high school today."

"Yeah? You have a grand-niece now? Last month it was your daughter was having a baby. But I don't think I've ever seen you get a visitor. I don't think you even have children. Now unfold your laundry pile."

Wyoming made a tutting noise before placing the pile of clothes on the ground. "Feel free to search through them yourself. Although I'd prefer that you don't spend too much time on the undergarments. Or else I might suspect there's another purpose behind these searches. There are much classier ways to show your interest, Washington."

"Shut up."

Wash started going through the laundry. He didn't spend much time on each piece, just enough time to confirm that there were no weapons taped to them. It was silent until…

"I quite like you, Washington," Wyoming said cheerfully.

"It's not mutual," Wash muttered.

"You remind me rather of me in my youth."

"And that's just insulting." Wash located the bottle of whiskey Wyoming had mentioned and put it to the side. "I'm confiscating the whiskey."

"Ah, I suspected that you would. But as I was saying. You're very similar to how I was. For starters, you're a rather handsome fellow."

Wash lowered the handful of dirty laundry he was holding and shut his eyes wearily. "Please don't say you're actually hitting on me."

Wyoming chuckled before continuing. "You are very stern about your duty. You are feared by many of the inmates, but most of all... you're a cruel man. You're a cruel man who pretends to be on the just side of the law, but who oversteps his bounds all too much. Tell me, do you do it for a reason? Do you have some deep-seated anger issues? Or are you just doing it for the fun of it?"

"None of your business, and if you keep—"

"If I keep annoying you, you'll beat me up. You're a little too quick to resort to violence, aren't you? You're cruel, Washington. Too cruel. More colloquially, you're a real piece of shit. Now, I fully endorse finding amusement wherever possible, especially in a dull job like guarding murderous psychopaths. But you're not careful enough. I've heard whispers about you being... shall we say, rough? Not to mention being criminally neglectful. What did Donut do to you to make you leave him alone with a known serial killer?"

Wash stopped shuffling through the laundry. He knew that listening to Wyoming was a stupid idea... but the man had a creepy sort of charisma. Wash blamed the accent.

"I hear the whispers, Washington. The rumours. Sometimes the blatant accusations. And I've heard it all before. Because I was the same.

“When I was young, when I was still a young, foolish and sadistic prison guard... I was perhaps one of the bigger dangers to the inmates. I was cruel for the fun of it. I beat some of them rather badly. Others, well..." Wash heard Wyoming step closer. "Let's just say the ones who got severely beaten were the lucky ones. I did these things, and kept doing them, and thought it was fine. Because they were just criminals. Who would care? And more importantly... they were afraid of me. So I got careless and complacent because I thought no-one would dare rat me out."

Wyoming reached out and grasped Wash's shoulder. Wash did not immediately shrug him off.

"Let me tell you something, my friend. They would dare. They would. It's already happening to you. Your cruelties are already well-known even through simple rumors. One day... one day there will be enough proof even for Sarge, blind-sighted idiot that he is. One day, York staying quiet won't be enough to save you.

"And when that day comes..." Wyoming let out a small chuckle. "They won't just fire you. How do you think I wound up in here to begin with? It won't matter how you justified it, how much you claim you were merely servicing society. They will strip you of your uniform and replace it with a faded orange jumpsuit. And the inmates... oh, how inmates enjoy the prey of a former prison guard. They will enjoy taking out their hatred of overly cruel guards out on you. And I promise you, if you don't find a way to make yourself too important to harm… then I guarantee you won't last."

"Are you done?" Wash muttered icily, finally shrugging Wyoming's hand off him.

"Nearly. My final point? I doubt they'll let you have a night light in your cell."

Wash's eyes widened slightly, and he turned around. He was holding the confiscated bottle of whiskey. "How do you—"

"A little birdie told me. He also told me a great many things about your past. Very interesting. You know, I'm sure there are certain people who would love to hear that little story. Perhaps York would like to hear some tales about you and his wife working together—"

Wash punched him in the stomach. Wyoming doubled over, letting out a wheezy chuckle before straightening up again.

"That's what I was referring to, Washington. Keep that temper in check. Wouldn't want to get in trouble, now would we? Now, I'm going to be busy for a few days. I would appreciate it if you didn't interfere with my business for a while." Wyoming's smile was still there, but it was significantly colder. "Wouldn't want York knowing anything unsavoury, would we? And you can hurt me all you want. But it won't silence anything I've said, will it?”

He turned around and strolled off, as if he was walking through a sunlit park rather than past a row of cells, leaving the pile of laundry behind.

Wash just stood there, frowning and thinking. He was still standing there when Sarge appeared next to him.

"Washington? Why in sam hell are you standing here holding whiskey? And why is there a pile of laundry here? Take that upstairs, dump it with the rest."

"Yes sir."

"Excellent. I'll take the whiskey off your hands. Uh. For evidence purposes. Yes. This whiskey is going straight to the evidence locker." Sarge unscrewed the lid and took a sip. "Just checking it for poison first."

"Right. Poison. Sure.”

 

* * *

 

"It feels like a horror movie. We're all dropping off one by one," Grif said, looking around. Church mumbled something under his breath in reply before going back to poking with his food. Grif kept staring for a moment longer. First at where Donut usually sat. Then at Caboose's place. Then at Tucker's regular seat. "There's only three of us left. I bet Simmons is going down next, he hasn't been seriously injured lately."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "This isn't a horror movie. None of the others are dead. Donut's the only one even in the infirmary. Tucker's napping, and Caboose is just being mopey. Besides, if any of us are gonna be the next 'victim,' it's gonna be Church."

"Yeah?" Church looked up from his food, scowling. "I'm gonna be next, huh? How do you figure?"

"Logic says you're completely screwed."

"Again. How?"

"Okay, you're apparently an idiot. How to explain..." Simmons felt his jacket pockets and pulled out a deck of cards he and Grif normally played with. "I'd use a chess metaphor, but I've got no pieces. So..." Simmons quickly shuffled through the cards and picked out the king of spades. "Let's just pretend this is a chess king."

Church normally would have already told Simmons to shut up and stop annoying him with his garbage. But... anything to fill the silence. "Okay?"

Simmons pushed his tray aside, arranged some cards on the table. Once he'd finished, the cards were in a similar position to the pieces of a chess board. "Now, in chess terms... I guess you're the king." He poked the king of spades. "I mean, you got a big hold on this prison most of the time. Enough to blackmail people and not get beat up for it. But that's only because you got all the other pieces doing the work for you. By himself, the king is absolutely useless. You only made it this far because..." Simmons frowned and tapped his finger on the queen of spades. "Hm. Would the queen be Tucker or Caboose?"

"Considering the whole gay vibe, I'd say Tucker," Grif put in.

"Oh god, shut up about Tucker," Church grumbled.

“The queen is the strongest piece, though, so it'd really fit Caboose more." Simmons tapped the queen a couple more times before saying, "Doesn't seem right to make Caboose the queen, though, so... Okay. Tucker's the queen, we'll say Caboose is the rook."

"Why is Caboose a bird?" Grif asked.

"That's the castle, stupid."

"Oh."

"Anyhow. While the king is surrounded by the other pieces, he's fine. Because the queen can jump all over the board and take out a bunch of people, and the rooks just plow through everything. And the rest of the pieces catch anything else, so very little gets close enough to screw you over. But say the queen threw a bitch fit at the king and the rook went crazy and attacked the queen because he thought she… he... was a traitor…"

"Dude, are we even still playing chess?"

"Shut up, Grif. Anyhow, the fallout from that basically knocks the queen and the rook out of the game. And since the queen was helping blackmail the other pieces into not attacking the king…"

"Pawns can't attack their own king, Simmons."

"Grif, stop poking holes in my metaphor!"

"What? Your metaphor makes no sense! You're using playing cards! You suck at chess!" Grif protested.

Church had been sitting there, listening while at the same time wondering why the fuck he was listening to them argue in the first place. "Is there a point to this? Or are you just wasting my fucking time?"

"Right. Well... basically, you got no more pieces left. And there are a lot of people out there who can see your chess board, you know? They know that the pieces are all gone. In other words, if one of them decided to move their own pieces..." Simmons flicked the king of spades aside. "Checkmate."

"You're using playing cards. That kinda ruins the effect," Grif mumbled.

"And that's why you're screwed. Because everyone wants to punch you in the face—including me—and there's nothing to stop anyone from doing it. Except maybe Tex. You've still got a bishop."

"That's a jack of spades.”

“Shut up, Grif."

"Why couldn't you have just said that everyone hates me instead of using your stupid chess metaphor?" Church groaned.

"Shut up."

"Are you venting your frustration at the fact that your old man never let you join the school chess club?" Grif asked.

"He said it wasn't manly,” Simmons muttered.

"So, okay. I'm screwed, then," Church said. "How do I stop myself from getting punched in the face, huh?"

"What? I'm not telling you that," Simmons said incredulously, snapping out of his childhood angst. "I'm gonna be in line to deliver a fist to your face for blackmailing me about... you know."

"About Cyborg2.0?"

"Not out loud!"

"And also for blackmailing you into giving you pruno using Sister's... habits... as leverage," Grif said. He grinned. "Can't do that anymore. Sister's given it up because of the pregnancy. At least, that's what she said. Anyway, only reason I haven't smashed your face into a wall is Caboose. And he might as well be in a coma for all he's doing at the moment."

"Mm. Right." Church rubbed his forehead. He could feel a stress headache building. He probably should have found another way to deal with Caboose. One that didn't stop the protection. "What do I have to do to stop you guys from beating me up?"

Simmons drummed his fingers against the table. "You could help us with something."

"What?"

"Can you help us get rid of O'Malley?”

“I don't kill people.”

“It's fucking news to us,” Grif said, pulling a face. “You said killing is the only way we'll stop this guy, right?”

Church shrugged. “He'll get bored, eventually. He got bored with Caboose. He'll get bored with Donut.”

“That doesn't help much if he kills Donut in the meantime.”

Church rolled his eyes. “What a loss that would be. ...Look, I'm not gonna actively stab him or anything. And you said it yourself. I don't have any fucking resources. How do you expect me to help?”

“Eh. Good point. Can't you at least point him out to us?”

"Ugh. Maybe. I'll think about it."

 

* * *

 

"Someone should have helped you with this before," Sheila muttered. She was holding Donut's arm firmly, helping him correct his balance. "You would have been walking earlier if you'd gotten some assistance."

"Really? I kept getting shouted at for trying."

"Shouting is no way to help someone. I'm going to let go of your arm now." Sheila let go, and Donut didn't fall over.

It had been two days since Sheila had first started helping him with walking. Already it was much easier. For the most part, Donut could actually stay on his feet. As long as he moved slowly, anyway. Sometimes Donut would still lose his balance, but Sheila was always nearby to stop him from hitting the ground. It was a lot less painful than trying by himself.

"Now, try walking across the infirmary and back without falling. Okay?"

"Okay." Donut started walking across the room at about the same pace as a turtle. "If I manage getting around the room, can I leave?"

"Leave? Hm, I don't know about that. You're still slow and unsteady."

"I know, but practice makes perfect. And Mama Julie always said that the best way to teach someone to swim was to throw them in the deep end of the pool."

"That sounds rather dangerous."

"She never literally did that. She just said it. ...Although, I already knew how to swim when I was adopted, so she never really had the chance. I don't think she would ha—aah!" Donut wobbled, but managed to grab the wall before he fell over. "Whew."

"See, you're still unbalanced. Give it another day."

"But I'm so sick of the ceiling... And I'm sure you'd like some time alone with Lopez." Every day, Lopez showed up just a little after working hours ended. He still wouldn't be there for a couple more hours, but he'd show up. And whenever he was there, he looked annoyed at Donut's constant presence. "I kinda feel like a third wheel when he's around. I hate being a third wheel."

"While I would love some time alone with him, my duty as a doctor comes first," Sheila said firmly. "And you're not fit to be leaving yet."

"Okay, I didn't want to play this card, but... If I don't get permission to leave, I will have to subject you to hours upon hours of asking if I can leave yet. 'Can I leave yet? Can I leave yet? Can I leave yet?' And so on."

"That's a nasty trick, Donut."

"Yeah... but it works. Or I could talk about interior design for hours.”

"That won't work on me." As Donut wobbled a bit, Sheila reached out to grab his shoulder, helping him to regain his balance. "But if you can make... let's say, five laps around the infirmary without falling once, I'll let you leave. That should be enough to prove you can get around by yourself."

"Deal."

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Donut fell over again.

"Oh, come on! That was almost five laps. See?" Donut stretched out his arm, trying to reach his cot from his current position on the floor. He was about a foot away. "That was close, come on."

"Can you get up by yourself?"

"Hm... let me check."

He could. He needed the wall for support, but he could."

"Well, it wasn't quite there. But... I suppose it was fairly close." Sheila helped Donut up. "But if I let you out, you have to promise to stick close to the walls for support. And if you're having too much trouble or you injure yourself, come back. ...Oh, and you probably shouldn't be put back on laundry duty for now. Especially with all the irons, falling onto one of those would be unpleasant. It just doesn't seem safe to let prisoners near irons, to begin with, but..." Sheila shrugged. "Are you certain you want to leave?"

"Yes. Very yes. Seriously yes. I'll be fine. O'Malley's still in the other infirmary, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be fine. Besides... I seriously need a shower. I really do smell like a garbage heap."

"Very well. Let me help you to the door."

Once Donut was out of the infirmary, he felt like doing some sort of happy victory dance. He would have, except that probably would have made him fall over again and he didn't want to fall over while he was still in front of the infirmary. It'd be embarrassing.

Shuffling towards the cell block was awesome. After almost a month on a cot or just walking in circles, actually going somewhere was awesome. He could feel the metaphorical wind in his hair. He didn't see anyone. The prison was usually close to empty during this part of the day, since most were working in the laundry room or the kitchen or wherever. However, when Donut rounded a corner, right where the cells began, he walked straight into someone.

Donut stumbled, almost falling over, but the person he'd run into grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

"Oof! Sorry about that! Thanks, uh…"

Donut tailed off as he looked at who was steadying him. He couldn't remember the man's name. But he knew he'd seen the man before. Where had it been? In the yard, he was sure of that. But that didn't help much, every inmate was in the yard at some point.

"No need to apologise, cleanser of fabric," the man said cheerfully.

It was during those last three words that it clicked. Donut knew who he was. He was one of the guys who worshipped the flag. Not the one who had attacked Walter, but one of the others. Donut shuffled backwards nervously. The zealot frowned at him.

"You should not be scared of us. We only do the work of the flag, my Red brother. We are not a danger to you." He turned around and left, walking the way that Donut had come from.

His assurance that Donut was in no danger wasn't comforting at all. Donut wondered why the zealot was wandering around by himself. They normally traveled around in a pack.

But whatever he was up to, Donut really didn't want to get involved.


	19. Chapter Fifteen: Gaslighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut finds out why Caboose is in prison, and why he's always been so sure that Church was his best friend. Sheila meets one of the flag-worshiping zealots. And Wash acts creepy in a bathroom.

It took so long for Donut to get near his cell that the bell signalling the end of working hours went off. It wouldn't be long before the cells were swarming with the inmates who weren't interested in hanging around the yard. But for now, they were still almost empty.

But there were still a couple of people around. When Donut passed by Tucker's cell, Tucker was messing around with his wall of crayon drawings. A bunch of them had fallen down, and he was currently trying to stick them back onto the wall.

"Your kid sure does draw a lot," Donut said, peering through the bars.

"Dammit, and here I thought I'd escaped your stupid conversations," Tucker muttered. "And Junior doesn't draw much any more." He nodded his head at the drawings on the right. Unlike the others, they were done in pencil. There were a lot less of them than of the crayon drawings. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

"No. Grif and Simmons would be in the laundry room or getting lunch, one or the other. And Caboose is in the shoe."

"Actually, he's moping around in his cell."

"Really? They let him out that soon?"

"Weird thing, that. Pretty much everyone in there got let out. Not really sure why. Don't care that much." Tucker shrugged, before adding, "Can you piss off already?"

"Fine. You're more of a grump than Church."

"No-one's that grumpy.”

Donut shuffled over to Caboose's cell and peered in. Caboose had his sheets pulled over his head, so Donut couldn't see anything but a huge grey lump.

"Caboose? Why are you wearing sheets over your head?"

The grey lump turned towards him, or at least Donut assumed it was facing him, but it didn't say anything.

"Is this a new game? Are we playing ghosts? Or blanket monsters?" Donut edged in, sat down at the foot of the cot. "Caboose? Come on, the silence is creeping me out." He tugged the sheet off Caboose's head. "...Ergh. Your eyes are totally bloodshot. Ick. What's going on?"

Caboose opened and closed his mouth a few times, before shaking his head.

"Come on, Caboose. You can talk to me. Use your words, come on." Donut reached out to touch his shoulder, but Caboose edged away. "That bad?"

Caboose nodded.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

There was a pause, before Caboose shook his head.

"Okay then." Donut shuffled closer, settled down next to Caboose. "Take your time. I'll be ready to listen when you're ready to talk."

Several minutes of silence went by. Occasionally Caboose would move like he was about to speak, but no sound would ever come out. The silence went on for so long that Donut almost nodded off twice, tired from the effort of walking down to the cells. After the second time, Donut's gaze landed on the floor. The stuffed pigeon was lying there haphazardly. Donut slid off the bed for a moment, picked it up and returned to the bed.

“You drop this? ...It's a little dusty, but I can—“

Donut tried to hand it to Caboose, but Caboose's hand shot out and pushed it away. He stared at the pigeon for a moment, eyes wide. Then he covered his face and started crying uncontrollably.

"Caboose? No, no, no, don't cry!" Donut put down the pigeon and tried to hug him, tried to comfort him in some way, but Caboose jerked away whenever Donut touched him. "What's wrong? Why are you…"

"Why are you still pretending?!" Caboose screamed. Donut jumped back. He'd not been expecting that.

"Pretending?"

"Why are you still pretending to believe me? Why are you still there?"

"I asked if you wanted me to stay. I can go, if you want. I just wanted to know what was wrong. That's all. I don't like seeing you sad... I want you to be okay, and you're... you're so not okay." Donut moved forward again, but Caboose put out a hand to stop him. Those bloodshot eyes were staring at him, tears trickling out of them.

"That... that..." Caboose swallowed, before shaking his head. "No. No, I... I do want you to stay. But you... you should not waste your time pretending. Church wasted... he wasted lots of years pretending. And all I did was make things bad. I do not want to make things bad for you! Not again!”

"You don't make things bad for me!"

"I broke your leg."

"Well, yeah, a little bit... but... hey, I thought we were going to pretend that never happened."

"See? Pretending. You are pretending. Just like... just like Church said he..." Caboose let out a low whine before covering his face again. "And... and when I kept saying 'they fell over, it was not my fault, do not be silly, I would not ever do... something like... that...'" His speech dissolved into sobbing again.

"No, I... I believed you," Donut lied automatically. An odd choking sound came from Caboose. It took a few seconds for Donut to realise it had been a laugh. The sort of laugh that was really hard to distinguish from the sobs.

"If you... if you really believed that they fell over... then you are stupider than I am," Caboose said bitterly. "Church was... he was right. I am the tractor. And you are just not saying it because you were scared, because I... I make things bad, and they end up crushed and hurt and... and dead... just because I got angry. Just like Apples! Just like... just like Mama…"

"Just like... wait, your mother? You…"

“She… she really did fall. The stairs… she fell down them." Caboose peered out through his fingers at Donut. "I… I think I made her."

Donut had been reaching out to try and pat Caboose on the shoulder again. But when Caboose said that, he stopped and withdrew his hand.

He'd suspected that something bad had happened between Caboose and his mother. He tended to get kind of touchy about the subject. But... Donut hadn't thought it was like that. He thought maybe his mother just hadn't taken Caboose being locked up well. But…

A large part of Donut wanted to back away, or shout, or do something along those lines. Because he just couldn't believe Caboose could do that. Even taking Caboose's somewhat spacey mindset into consideration... Donut couldn't understand why anyone would kill their mother. Because just trying to figure that out brought Mama Liz and Mama Julie to mind. And... how could Donut even conceive of doing the same thing?

Caboose had seen Donut withdraw his hand. "You are scared. You... you should be. That is the non-stupid thing to do."

"I'm..." Donut just found he couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to think about the murders. Because he couldn't tell Caboose that was okay. He did want Caboose to be okay again, but he couldn't... couldn't just tell Caboose that murdering people was okay.

Donut sat there for a long time, listening to Caboose go back to covering his face and crying. His mind turned to the other question. Why had Caboose snapped? Why now?

He'd heard enough to know it had something to do with Church. Something that Church had said.

“Wait here, Caboose.”

 

* * *

 

Church only vaguely listened to Grif and Simmons arguing behind him, as he walked back to the cells. In all honesty, he didn't want to go back to the cells. But he didn't want to go anywhere else, either. Both places were too silent. Following Grif and Simmons helped with that a little, since no matter what happened their constant stupidity was always loud and annoying.

When he turned the corner, he saw Donut. He was moving extremely slowly and using the cell bars for support as he walked along. He was staring directly at Church.

"Hey! Donut, I thought you couldn't walk," Grif said.

Donut didn't reply. He came to a halt a couple of feet from Church, correcting his balance before straightening up. He glared at Church for a moment. Then he shouted.

“What did you say to him?!”

“...You talking about Caboose?”

“Who else? I know Tucker's not talking to you, and god knows you don't have any other friends,” Donut snapped. “Yes, I'm talking about Caboose. What did you do to him?!”

“Would you stop shouting? I didn't do anything—“

“Bullshit!” Donut's hand shot out and shoved Church. “Tell me!”

“Don't shove me.”

“Uh, Donut, maybe you shouldn't pick fights in the open—“ Simmons started.

“Punch him!” Grif said cheerfully.

“Grif, don't encourage it.”

Church gave Donut an annoyed look before reaching out and giving Donut a quick, sharp shove back. In his state, that alone was enough to make him fall over. The only reason he didn't hit the ground was because Grif and Simmons grabbed him mid-fall.

“Dude, what the fuck? You can't shove someone who can't walk,” Grif said, trying to stop Donut from slipping out of his grasp.

“Oh, so he can shove me but I can't shove him? That's bullshit,” Church grumbled. “Look, if you stop shouting at me and trying to push me I'll explain. But I'm not going to stand around and watch Donut try to fight me. It's just sad.”

“I'm gonna fight him,” Donut said, trying to wave his arms at Church. Grif and Simmons set him back on his feet, but didn't let go of his arms.

“Do you want to fight or do you want to know what's wrong with him?”

Donut let out an irritable sigh. “Fine. Explain.”

“I'll explain once the 'Donut Fan Club' has left.”

Grif and Simmons looked at each other and shrugged before letting go of Donut.

“Don't get send yourself back to the infirmary,” Simmons muttered.

“And if you end up fighting him again at least wait until I'm there to watch,” Grif said. He and Simmons left, quickly lapsing back into the argument they'd been having before. Donut watched them go before turning to Church, still looking like he was thinking about hitting him.

Church eyed him for a moment before nodding his head towards the cells. “Come on. I'm not talking about this in the open.”

Once they'd reached Church's cell, Donut crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, glaring. “What'd you do to him?”

“I told you, I didn't… do anything, exactly. It's more like I undid something,” Church said, sitting down on his bunk.

“What did you undo, then?! And how do I fix it?”

Church mulled things over in his head a bit, trying to figure out how the hell he could explain it. “You know what he did? Do you actually know what Caboose did?”

“...Yeah. Killed his mother.”

“Among others. His mother was the fourth. There was also a stripper, two cops and his pet cat. Not what you were expecting, right?”

Donut didn't say anything, although he looked visibly perturbed. Church looked at him for a moment before continuing. Maybe he wouldn't have gone into detail normally, but fuck if he had anything else to talk about or anyone to talk to.

“I know that because he told me himself. When he came to this dump, he knew what he'd done. And he wasn't deluded about it. Maybe his head wasn't entirely in reality, but he still had one foot in it. He knew who he'd killed, and he knew for sure that it had been his fault. Thing was… that guilt was eating at him like acid.”

Church could recall it like it was yesterday. He'd been hanging around with Tucker, when suddenly Tucker had ducked behind him and pointed out the giant wandering around, mumbling something about how once he'd slept with a couple of the guy's sisters and how now he thought he might get beat up. Church had ignored this and approached Caboose, figuring the guy might be good protection. He'd talked to Caboose, but Caboose had just stared blankly at him before turning around and leaving. It'd taken a long time to even get him to say a word to him.

“He didn't eat. He didn't talk. He didn't defend himself in fights. He only left his cot when the guards made him. And you know as well as I do that if you want to survive here—“

“You have to want to survive,” Donut said quietly. He was rubbing one of his hands. Church could see some scars from O'Malley's attack peppering his arm here and there.

“Exactly.” Church tilted his head up a little, frowning. “This guy I knew once… Gary… he always said 'if you tell someone something often enough, eventually they'll believe it.' It helps if they don't want to believe the truth. Or if your words are all they have to hold onto.”

He wrinkled his nose, recalling standing near the door to the basement and hearing Gary talk at Wash. Telling him a lot of things like how the Director's men weren't even looking for him because he was useless. That he was pathetic for getting caught. That he should have been able to stop Carolina's death. He also recalled that Wash never really argued against these accusations.

“It was the guilt that was causing problems, see? So I lied. I lied a lot. I told him that the murders sounded like accidents. Or that the people he killed had clearly provoked him. That they attacked first, so it wasn't his fault. That his mother had just fallen on those stairs, that he couldn't have pushed her because he so obviously wouldn't do that. Just… lie after lie after lie.”

Donut had stopped rubbing the scars on his arms. He was now staring at Church with a mixture of dawning comprehension and nausea.

“Eventually, I was telling him he'd never done anything wrong. And Caboose is an idiot, and he wanted to believe it so much. So he did. He thought that he was completely innocent—or at least had managed to pretend it hard enough—and believed that I was the only one that believed 'the truth.' He wasn't feeling guilty and I had a bodyguard who thought I was the greatest person ever.”

“You gaslighted him into thinking he was innocent?” Donut asked, eyes wide.

“It saved his life.”

“But it's disgusting! And when you said you 'undid' something—“

“Caboose always knew what he'd done. I just stopped making it easy to ignore. Fuck, why do you think he's so afraid of O'Malley? Because O'Malley got the truth out of him before me, and O'Malley doesn't let him forget. Not to mention O'Malley's pretty… familiar… with the method I used. But I was the one who fed Caboose all those lies. It… it was easy to get through to him.”

“...You sick fuck,” Donut whispered.

“He shouldn't have tried to kill Tucker.”

“I don't care, it's still sick! How am I supposed to fix that?!”

“Fuck if I know. I don't even know if it's possible. Maybe it broke him for good this time. But that's his problem. Not mine.”

"God, I... god! I knew you were a jerk, but... oh god! Even for you, this is... ugh." Donut shuddered. "Yeah, okay. He tried to attack Tucker. But he was doing that to protect you, that's no reason to... I don't even want to look at you right now!"

“Because lying to Caboose is the worst thing I've ever done,” Church said sarcastically. “And it's totally worse than his casual murdering. Look, if you want to try and fix it go ahead, but I don't know if gaslighting him into thinking he's innocent will work again.”

“I'm not going to do that! I'm going to… going to...”

“You don't know, do you?”

“I'm going to be honest, I know that much,” Donut finished.

“Yeah? You're gonna be honest and you're gonna fix him? Do you have a therapy degree? Do you have a map of whatever the fuck goes on in Caboose's head? Sure. I'm sure you'll do just fine at it. Also pigs will fly and Sarge will become competent at his job.”

Donut, in response to this, left Church's cell. But not before flipping him off first.

 

* * *

 

There was one very obvious hitch in Donut's plan to, somehow, make Caboose feel better.

"Oh, you've got to be... where'd he go?!" Donut groaned, staring into Caboose's empty cell. "How'd he even leave without me seeing him?"

Donut kept staring into Caboose's cell, as if Caboose was just going to materialize or reveal that he'd just been hiding under the cot. Not that Caboose could hide under the cot. He was far too big for that. After a few more seconds, he turned around and headed to Grif's cell. “Hey, do you know where Caboose went?”

“I'm not his babysitter, dude,” Grif said. He was sprawled out on his cot and resting his feet in Simmons' lap. Simmons was mostly ignoring this in favour of reading.

"Aw, man. Looking for him is gonna be a bitch. And he'll probably run off. No way I'm gonna be able to catch him." Donut looked down at his legs, then up at Grif. "Think I could get a piggyback around while I look for him?"

"Fuck no."

"Please?"

"Donut, you're asking Grif to willingly do something that involves physical effort. I don't think it's going to happen," Simmons said.

"Can I get a piggyback from you, then?"

"Hell no."

"What's your excuse, then?"

"Well… mostly, I just don't want to.”

“He also won't admit he's got skinny noodle arms,” Grif said, waving his arms.

“Shut up, Grif.”

“Okay, yeah, that's fair. But Grif, come on. You can lift me. Favour for a friend?”

"Nah."

Donut pondered for a few long moments, before taking a deep breath. "Okay. Then my offer is... if you carry me around until I find Caboose, then... then I'll wash your underwear for a week, free of charge."

Simmons let out an awed swear while Grif looked up, grinning. Washing underwear was the worst of the laundry jobs that Donut took on. And Grif's underwear was a special kind of nightmare.

"You're that desperate to find him?" Grif asked, grinning.

"Yeah, I'm... I'm just kind of scared of what he'll do if left by himself."

"Huh. Guess that makes sense," Grif said. "...Make it two weeks."

"Fine. Deal?"

"Deal." Grif climbed to his feet. "Need to find him right now?"

"Right now." However, when Donut got too close Grif stepped back, covering his nose. "What?"

"Gross. When was the last time you had a shower, seriously?"

"You're lecturing me about showering?! You?!" Donut complained.

"What can I say? Even I have standards. And you smell like a garbage dump. I'm not giving you a piggyback until you get a shower. I mean, if I carry you around, then the stink will get on me. And I'll have to have a shower as well, and I try to do that only once a week. You'll ruin it."

"But... Caboose…"

“Look, he's been pretty chill since he got out of the shoe. He's not going to act up five minutes after you got out. He'll be alright.”

“...You better be right.”

 

* * *

 

Sheila was still tidying up and making the cot Donut had been inhabiting ready for whoever would live in it next. Currently, that meant washing and sterilizing the bedpan. Not pleasant, but someone had to do it. At the same time, she was pondering the list of medications that all the inmates had been on. So many mistakes... she was still amazed that the old doctor, DuFresne, had managed to keep his job for so long. Not that the warden exactly gave a good impression, either.

As she, once again, tried to figure out where the doctor had gotten pills that had been outlawed years ago, the door swung open. Sheila had been expecting Lopez (he normally showed up around now) but it was an inmate she didn't know. She turned towards him slightly, still holding the bedpan.

"Yes? Are you injured?"

"No. I am here on behalf of the prophet."

"The prophet?"

That rang a bell in Sheila's head. She'd heard about what happened to Walter. Disemboweled by someone who was worshiping a flag. Prophets were associated with religion.

She placed the bedpan on the counter, though her hand didn't quite leave it. "I'm afraid this isn't a place that prophets would need to visit. You must be mistaken."

"I am far from mistaken. Although you were mistaken in taking this job. The prophet doesn't appreciate it." The inmate reached into his jacket, and pulled out a shiv that he'd taped to the inside of it.

"You're not allowed weaponry," Sheila said calmly. She held out one hand. "Please hand it over."

"Look. I'm... I'm not so good at the speeches as our leader. So I'm just going to finish this." He pointed the shiv at her and took a step forward. "The flag demands sacrifice. It's an honour, really."

"I'll pass." Sheila eyed the shiv warily. "Put that down."

"Sacrifice. He demands sacrifice." The inmate said it like it was he most sane thing in the world. And then he jumped forward, shiv ready to dig into her stomach and remove most of her intestines.

Sheila dived to the side, grabbing the bedpan, and slamming it squarely against the man's head. At the same time, she felt pain slice through her side.

The flag worshiper toppled onto the ground, out cold and now smelling very faintly of antiseptic. Sheila dropped the bedpan back on the counter before half-falling against the counter, touching her side. It was dripping red, but it wasn't her stomach. Wasn't as deep as it could have been. It'd leave a scar, and it was a little hard for her to stitch herself from this angle, but it hadn't gone too deep.

...Could be worse. Didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Sheila's hands were shaking, but she felt detached from the pain. She bunched her shirt up closest to the bleeding, breathing in sharply as she pressed down.

It was only a minute or so before the door swung open again.

Lopez walked in, just like he did every day. But he stopped, going pale. Taking in the scene of Sheila sitting there, slowly bleeding. Of the inmate lying on the ground, still unconscious.

" _Sheila?!_ "

" _Lopez... dear. Can you... can you please go and find that guard who knows how to do stitches?_ " Sheila asked in a strained voice. " _I believe his name is Wash._ "

" _Sheila, you—_ " Lopez took a step forward, reaching out.

" _Lopez, I understand your concern. But he's the only one who can help me right now. Please._ "

Lopez's expression was just as pained, like he was personally experiencing the intended wound. Then he turned around and ran to find the guard.

Sheila continued to lean on the counter, trying to keep the bleeding in check and hoping that the inmate who'd done it wouldn't regain consciousness.

 

* * *

 

When Donut made it to the bathroom, he intended to be as fast as possible. No distractions. No reveling in the fact that he could wash himself again. Regardless of how long he'd been waiting to have a shower again, he didn't have time to enjoy it.

He'd been focused on this. Just in and out. In and out. No slipping, no falling over. But he'd lost this trail of thought once he entered the bathroom, because the first thing he caught sight of was his own reflection in the polished metal that was the prison's equivalent of a mirror.

And that distracted him completely. Because what he saw in that mirror looked nothing like the reflection he knew so well. Fixated, he moved towards the mirror and stared into it with a mixture of fascination and disgust. He reached up and touched his head. His hair was growing back slowly, but at the moment it was little more than brown stubble. He hadn't shaved in a while, either, so the same went for his face. He didn't wear stubble well, it tended to be kind of patchy. Like growing grass in an area where parts of the soil had been salted.

His fingers moved down to where his ear used to be. All that remained was a couple of flaps, that were covered in stitches. It was strange. It didn't look like his reflection at all, but when he blinked the reflection blinked. Although... he looked about as tired as he felt. That part matched up, at least.

"Weird," Donut mumbled to himself, fingers still tracing the remains of his ear.

"I wouldn't say weird. It's more like the outside is changing to reflect the inside."

Donut jumped as a voice spoke up behind him, and had to grab onto the sink to stop himself from falling. Wash had been standing in the corner, leaning against the wall. Clearly on guard duty.

"What?"

"The innocent face and lack of scars? Just contributed to the illusion that you're harmless," Wash said. "You look more like a hardened criminal now."

"Hardened criminal? I'm not a hardened criminal! I clean laundry!" Donut protested. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm on guard duty. I'm doing my job."

"First time for everything," Donut muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Donut walked by Wash into the shower room. There were quite a few inmates in there already. Just after lunch was a time when many inmates showered, although Donut had been so slow in reaching the showers that most of them had left by now. Probably no hot water left. But the more inmates were around, the better. Meant there was less chance that Wash would do anything. Not that Donut knew what Wash would do to him if left alone, but in any case... he didn't want to risk it.

As he stripped as quickly as possible without falling over, his main thoughts had gone back to 'be quick.' Just be quick, be quick, be quick. Right up until Donut shuffled under the shower spray.

It wasn't hot, but it was lukewarm and it was the cleanest he'd felt in the last month. Donut sighed happily, briefly forgetting that he was supposed to be getting in and out quickly. Just enjoying the warm water pouring over him and flowing down his back and... God, it was liquid heaven.

But he needed to be faster. He needed to find Caboose.

Donut stood still under the shower for a few more moments before starting to wash properly with soap. Nicer soap that he'd bought off Wyoming a while back. He would have preferred the scented stuff, but that earned too much shit in here. But it was still nicer than the soap from the commissary.

He was normally not afraid in the shower. Of course he originally had been. He knew the reputation for prison showers and what 'dropping the soap' supposedly meant. But there was always a guard on duty in the bathroom when the showers were going. If an inmate even thought about getting grabby they'd be sent to the shoe. So for the most part, the showers were one of the safer areas of the prison, if anything.

But the guard was Wash. That changed things.

After a couple of minutes, the group of inmates in there left, arguing about whether the mystery meat served for lunch was poisonous, and whether or not it was as dangerous as the macaroni had been. And Donut was left by himself.

Why'd they have to leave in a group? Donut didn't like this. He felt naked. ...Well, he was naked. But he felt naked in a metaphorical sense, as well.

It only took a few seconds for Wash to speak up.

"So. You can walk again."

"No thanks to you," Donut grumbled.

"No thanks to me? I was the 'doctor' when you were hurt. I called the ambulance as quick as possible. If it'd been Doc, he probably would have tried to fix you himself. He probably would have killed you in the process. I saved your life."

"And then you left me in the room with O'Malley! What the hell? Why save my life if you were going to do... that?!"

"Because I need to know how you killed Meta."

"Oh, not this again... Why won't you let this go?" Donut yelled.

"Let this go?" Wash chuckled bitterly. "Sometimes I wish I could, but…" Wash sighed. "This would be so much easier if you just told me what I wanted to know."

"I have told you. And you screamed at me. I keep telling you, it honestly was dumb luck."

"It couldn't be dumb luck!" Wash snapped.

"It was! He... he got distracted. He got distracted at the wrong moment, because of dumb luck. The only reason that I'm still alive is a mixture of dumb luck and, maybe, stubbornness about dying. I mean, I don't want to die. I don't want to go to Heaven or Hell. I don't look good in white and leather makes me itch."

"You managed to kill the Meta because you didn't want to wear leather in the afterlife," Wash said in a deadpan tone.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"Look, I really just want to get this over with. You think leaving you with O'Malley for a few minutes was the worst I could do? Would you rather I throw you in SHU with him? Or I can throw you in a SHU cell alone… but there's nothing stopping me from visiting you there, is there? No chance of witnesses. But tell me what I want to know and nothing will happen to you."

"I have told you what you want to know. I just can't tell what you want to hear," Donut sighed. He grabbed his clothes and started getting dressed as fast as possible, not even bothering to dry himself. "You want to hear something about me doing some kind of awesome expert thing to kill Maine. You want to hear something like 'I did this fighting move that's only known by an old guy who bathes under waterfalls.'"

"I'm not interested in hearing cliches from kung fu movies," Wash said.

"No, but you want to hear something awesome. Something that takes a lot of skill and effort. You want to hear that I did something that you couldn't do, because then it would all make sense. Why you couldn't beat him and I could." Donut finished pulling his clothes on, left the showers and faced Wash, scowling. "But I can't tell you that, because it wouldn't be true. Life's not that simple, Wash. Sometimes life just doesn't make sense.”

"So, you're not gonna tell me how you did it."

"Wow. Okay. I'll consider that point missed. Seriously, are you stupid? Or are you just insane like I've heard?"

"Don't. Call. Me. Insane."

Donut paused. Then he turned and glared at Wash. “Insane.”

“Don't you—“

“Insane, insane, insane.”

Wash's hand started to go for his nightstick. But that was when Lopez came running in. He looked out of breath.

" _Washington! It's Sheila! You have to help Sheila!_ "

"...Uh?"

" _She was attacked by one of those insane flag-worshipping maniacs, and now she's bleeding. You have to help her! You have to! Please, you have to help my wife!_ "

"I don't know Spanish."

" _Help Sheila!_ " Lopez roared.

"I think he said that Sheila was entering a go-kart race and needed help building it, or else she'll have to wave the white flag," Donut said.

" _Sheila has been stabbed! She's going to die if you don't stop translating like a moron!_ "

"Oh shit, did I get that wrong. Sheila's been stabbed," Donut said. It took a moment for what he'd translated to properly register. "Wait, seriously?"

"Again? This is getting ridiculous," Wash muttered. "I'll see what I can do." He quickly left, walking towards the infirmary. Lopez stood still for a moment, breathing heavily. He glanced back at Donut before running off.

Donut covered his face. Another stabbing. Donut's stomach dropped. Lopez had mentioned flags. The flag-worshipping zealot. The one Donut had seen. Donut could have stopped him! But no. He'd decided 'not to get involved.' Idiot.

He started shuffling back towards Grif's cell. There was no point in going 'if only.' All he could do was try and make sure other people were safe. Besides, Caboose would want to know what had happened to Sheila.


	20. Flashback Seven - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seventh flashback out of eight, continuing the story of how the main six inmates ended up in prison. This part only contains Church's story.
> 
> Three months go by. No-one is happy.

**Church**

 

Church lost the bet. He'd thought, at the time that he met the bet with Tex, that he could hold out for at least a week before giving into the urge to call her. But he didn't even end up waiting until the day was out. Tex agreed to meet him, two days after the ambush.

“What do you want, then?” Church asked, staring at the drinks.

“Whatever's the strongest.”

“They got absinthe. I hear that's pretty terrifying.”

Tex shrugged. “Good enough.”

“...Man, that is way more expensive than twenty. I'm not made of money, y'know.”

“Whatever. I'll owe you. Just… I need to get drunk right now, alright?” Tex snapped.

“Alright, alright. Yeesh.”

Absinthe for Tex. Beer for Church. They got their drinks and then retreated to a booth in the tavern. Nice place, he supposed. Quiet. He could deal with that much easier than Club Errera, with all its lights and noises.

Tex didn't really look at him for a bit. Just plopped into her seat and started drinking. She looked tired. She looked worse than Church felt, and Church felt pretty damn shit. He opened his mouth to ask her if something was up, but then she chose that moment to speak.

“You look like shit,” she said, gesturing at him with the glass of absinthe. “Not that you were pretty to start with, but...”

“Been… been a shitty couple of days,” Church said.

“Yeah?” Tex drank a bit more before staring at Church over the green liquid. “Is that why you cracked so fast?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I… haven't had the best couple of days either.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No. Fuck no. I really need to not talk about it,” Tex said, now speaking more in the direction of her drink than at Church. “I just need to not think about it, and drink myself into a coma so I won't have to. So, seriously, don't ask if I want to talk about it or if I'm okay or whatever. I hate that pity shit.”

“Alright. What do you want to talk about, then?”

“Fuck if I know. Anything else.” Tex knocked back some more of her drink before gesturing at him with the drink again. “You look a little young to be that kid's dad.”

“What? ...Oh, you mean…?”

“The kid. Uh, I didn't get his name, but—“

“Otto's my little brother,” Church said, using Eddie's assumed name. “Not my kid. Jesus.”

“Right, yeah, you kind of had that nervous virgin air when we were messing about, even drunk.” Church flipped her off, and Tex grinned at him. “Aww, sensitive about it?”

“Fuck off.”

“No parents in the picture, then? Or they kick him out? I don't usually see little brothers living with their adult siblings.”

“Why's this the shit you wanna talk about? Is this normally how you chat up people?”

“Evasive.”

“Well, yeah. It's a painful subject, alright? Dad was an abusive douchebag.” Technically the truth.

“Recently?”

“Nah, he's been living with me for ages. It's not a problem any more.”

“Hrm.”

“Seriously, what's with the third degree?”

“Just kind of used to asking questions about this kind of thing. That's all.”

“Yeah? What do you do that requires—“

“Cop.”

Church choked on his beer.

A cop. Of course. Of course! That was just the pinnacle of his luck, wasn't it? The shit cherry on the shit sundae. He finally finds a girl he likes, and she's a fucking cop. Why did God hate him?

“What? You a criminal or something?” Tex had clearly noticed the choking.

“Juvenile delinquent,” Church said quickly. Technically also true. “I got picked up by the cops a couple of times when I was younger, mostly for shoplifting and shit. Guess I never outgrew, y'know, the wariness.” Church shrugged and drank some more beer. “Granted… the cops back home were less my type, y'know?”

“Smooth,” Tex snorted.

 

* * *

 

Church didn't want to return to the safehouse, even though he knew that he had to.

The safehouse Delta had found was a little cramped. Clearly made for one or two people. There were currently six of them. Seven if you included the prisoner, who they'd locked away in the almost soundproof basement.

Church found it very disquieting that Delta already had a basement prepared.

Omega and Gamma had spent the two days doing everything in their power to make the prisoner talk. Church hadn't gone down there, but despite the soundproofing he could still faintly hear him. Outside the house, nothing could be heard, but inside the house… it was impossible to ignore that, just under their feet, a man was being tortured.

Church, Eddie and Theta mostly sat around awkwardly, trying not to listen to the screams. Eddie tried to spend what time he could outside, and for once Church didn't object. Better to be out there than for Eddie to be so exposed to their business. Delta occasionally would be in the room with them, but would quickly leave. More often, he locked himself away in whatever free room he could find. Occasionally, he went into the basement and watched Omega and Gamma work. He never spoke, just listened.

Church had been sick of it all after five minutes, let alone two days.

When he got back to the safehouse, he found Eddie playing about on Theta's skateboard outside in the little alleyway outside the safehouse. He wasn't doing very well at it, overbalancing as Church approached him.

“I'm a fucking idiot,” Church announced as he got closer.

“Told you,” Eddie said. “But why? Like, specifically? Is it the fact that you were meant to cut all connections, and instead kept one because you thought Tex's butt was really nice?”

“No! Kind of. Look, it's not that I went on a date with her. It's that she's a goddamn cop!”

“...Serious? That's super fucked.” Eddie got back on the skateboard and tried to keep his balance. “You gonna keep seeing her?”

“I probably shouldn't, right?”

“Probably. Too bad. She was cool. I liked her.”

“Yeah. Me, too. I guess.” Church stuck his hands in his pocket, looking at the safehouse apprehensively, before looking back at Eddie. “They're still going?”

Eddie frowned. “Yeah.”

“Meta hasn't come back?”

“No. I'm kinda worried.”

“Well… he's not the sort of guy who can get killed easy. He's probably fine. Well. Alive, anyway.” Church shifted uncomfortably. “Hey, uh… maybe you could go grab some fast food. If you want to be… away from it… for a little while.”

“Do you actually want fast food?”

“...Not really.”

“Then I'm fine. I'm not a baby, Leo.” Eddie pulled a face at him, before returning to balancing on Theta's skateboard. Church watched him for a moment longer, then headed inside.

He found Theta sitting in the tiny main room, lying on his back and holding a 'Where's Waldo' book, staring at the pages with a strained look.

“Where did you even find that?” Church asked.

“Places,” Theta said. “Don't distract me. I lost where I was—“ A muffled yell came from the basement, and Theta shut his eyes for a moment, before opening them again enough to squint at the page. “I need to focus.”

“Uh. Good luck, I guess. Where are the others?”

“Dee's... in the kitchen. Others are down there.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Church left Theta to his distraction before heading to the kitchen.

He wanted to ask Delta a lot of things. What they were going to do next. If there was some way he could not expose Eddie to this torture bullshit. What the plan was if it turned out the prisoner knew nothing. What the fuck were they even doing any more?

He entered the kitchen with the intent to say all that, but instead just stopped and stared.

Delta was finger-painting.

A couple of small cans of paint were open on the table next to him, and a plain sheet of paper was lying in front of him. His hands were coated in paint, fingers slowly dragging across the paper, leaving orange and green streaks behind them. Most of the paint had just blended into that muddy brown that all paint became if you mixed it up too much.

As Church watched Delta do an activity that he'd always deemed frivolous, Delta dropped his hands down for a moment and observed his work. Then he put his face in his paint-covered hands.

Church couldn't be sure from the angle he was watching Delta from. But he thought, from the slight shake of his shoulders, that Delta might have been crying.

He didn't stay there long enough to find out. He turned around and left the kitchen, feeling like he'd intruded on something too personal.

 

* * *

 

After drinking herself into a stupor, the first thing Tex did on waking up with a giant hangover was head back to the hospital.

York was already there when she got there, or maybe he'd never left. He was still holding Carolina's hand, staring at her like it would make her wake up.

“Did you even go home?”

York shook his head.

“I can take over, you know. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“Already slept.”

“I meant not here.”

York ignored her. Tex pulled up a chair and sat down. Looking at Carolina was hard. Sure, they hadn't gotten along well since they were kids. But Carolina was still her sister. And it was still so wrong to see her this way.

“At least go get something to eat. If you die from starvation she'll wake up just to shout at you.”

York looked down, shifting a little, before looking at Tex. “You'll be here while I'm gone? In case… in case she wakes up, y'know?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“...Alright. Alright, I'll… I'll only be a few minutes.” York got up and wandered out, looking blank. Tex watched him leave, then shifted her chair closer to Carolina.

“Hey, 'Lina.” Tex reached towards her, like she was going to hold Carolina's hand, but hesitated before withdrawing her hand. “Guess it's just us for now.”

The story being told was that Carolina had just been found like this in a random alleyway. Possibly attacked on her way to or from work. That's what they said. Tex knew better, although she didn't dare say so. She was almost certain York had no idea about the kind of shit Carolina did for a living, and didn't want to bring it up at a time like this.

Fuck. She could have stopped this. She knew her father's line of work. The sort of work that a cop wasn't supposed to stand for, but she didn't even know where her father was hiding. She'd checked his house—and normally she wouldn't be caught dead going anywhere near her father, not after leaving and changing her name and demanding that everyone call her Tex instead of Allison. He hadn't been there, and anything essential had been cleaned out. And even if she had known, she would have had to explain how she knew what they'd been up to.

Maybe she should have. Maybe if she had, Carolina wouldn't be in this situation. It would have been better for Carolina to be in jail than for her to be dying.

Tex pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes, stretching the skin there to try and stop any tears from slipping out.

“Hey. Hey, 'Lina. If you don't wake up—“ Tex stopped for a moment, the idea that Carolina really might not wake up clogging up her throat for a moment. “...If you don't, then maybe I'll have to really join up with the fucked-up family business. Do better than you did. Come on, you're not going to stand for that, right? The 'Lina I knew wasn't a quitter.”

Tex waited. There was no response. After a little while, she sat back in her chair.

“Shit.”

 

* * *

 

Three days after the torture had begun, Omega left the basement with a huge smile. He headed for the bathroom, leaving smears of blood on the door handle, and Church could hear him humming the little jingle that always occurred whenever he washed his hands.

“He's ready to talk,” Omega said cheerfully, once he left.

Church let out a long breath, wondering if he was happy or disturbed. Theta frowned deeper, squinting at the comic book he was now reading. They heard footsteps from one of the other rooms, as Delta emerged and, without a word, headed for the basement.

Church made to follow when he noticed Eddie peering at them from a doorway.

“Go outside, Eddie,” Church said.

“But—“

“Outside.”

Eddie scowled, but headed outside. Theta let out a sigh, putting down his comic book before getting to his feet. He was still walking with a limp after the ambush, but it had been bandaged well and would heal. He walked past Church and headed down into the basement, too.

Omega grinned at Church. “I think you're going to have to admire my handiwork. Shall we?” He nodded for Church to head into the basement before him. Church glared at him before heading down.

Omega flicked on the lights once everyone was down there. Church let out a hiss of breath through his teeth at the sight of the prisoner, but even so his imagination had actually been producing worse. The prisoner had been blindfolded, his wrists were bound and a bicycle lock kept his neck chained to one of the pipes in the basement. His neck was bruised and bloody where the lock had cut into it while straining, and his face was a swollen mass of purple and yellow. Bad, but not worth bragging about.

Delta stepped forward and bent down so that he was on the same eye level. Not that it mattered with the blindfold.

“State your name,” Delta said.

The prisoner looked up. He breathed in hard through his nose. It sounded clogged, like he was breathing through mud. Then he spat a mouthful of blood right in Delta's face.

Delta didn't react immediately, and when he did he simply wiped his face off. “Omega. You said he was ready.”

“That's what he said. I think. It's hard to understand him through all the blood.”

“Fuck off,” the man said. His words were garbled through the blood that was rapidly filling his mouth again. Church felt a sudden wave of nausea. Now he could see what Omega had done to his mouth. Half his teeth were missing. Only the ones on the left side. Too uniform to be a result of beatings. The gums were torn and bloody. Church looked to the side of the room, where a small table sat. There was a knife and a pair of bloody pliers lying on it. Next to that, several red-soaked teeth.

Church felt bile rise in his throat, but managed to force it back down. Theta had shut his eyes, looking equally nauseated. But the others didn't seem disturbed. Omega was grinning and giggling over his handiwork. Gamma, leaning against the wall, wore a smug, pleased expression. And Delta looked as impassive as always.

“I am given to understand that a certain level of courtesy is owned to house guests, so I will ask one more time before I have Omega rip out the rest of your teeth,” Delta said coldly. “State. Your. Name.”

Silence. Delta straightened up and nodded at Omega, who grinned widely and picked up the pliers.

At just the tiny 'clink' sound of Omega picking them up, the prisoner blurted out, “Wash.”

Delta gestured for Omega to put the pliers back down again before turning his attention back to Wash. “Was that your name? Or are you requesting a shower? Your full name, please.”

“Da… David Washington.”

“We appreciate your cooperation. What is your status among the Director's men?”

“It's… it's hard to say, comparatively. I didn't meet many of them. I worked with Carolina. I always worked with Carolina.”

“So. An agent?”

“Yeah, I… I was an agent. Look, I… I don't know anything. Just the… just bare mi… mih...” Wash seemed to be struggling to speak, whether from fear or the lack of teeth or the abundance of pain. “Mi-minimum. They… they only told me what I-I needed to know.” Wash coughed, before tilting his head to the side and spitting again, this time on the ground. More blood. “Don't… don't know… don't know what you want, but…”

“Really? Then why did Meta pick you up?”

“I don't know! South… South told him I knew things. But she's a fucking liar.” His mouth twisted into a weird, bitter grin that was all the more unsettling for the amount of teeth missing from it. “Go ask her.”

“We are asking you, Washington.” Delta paced for a moment. “Carolina is not an option. And nothing you have said suggests that South is a better option than you.”

Wash tilted his head, like he was trying to look at Delta. “...Are you Delta?”

“Yes.”

“You killed her.”

“And I will kill you,” Delta said matter-of-factly. “Your answers determine how much pain you go through between then and now.”

Wash's head lowered again. He considered this for a moment. Then his head raised again in what might have been a defiant glare if he wasn't blindfolded.

“I have nothing to tell you.”

“Pity,” Delta remarked, before nodding at Omega. “Omega. Continue. The rest of you will come upstairs.”

The others left, although Theta gave a sympathetic look back at Wash. Church couldn't help but glance back as he was leaving, too. Omega was wiggling his fingers above his various tools, looking like a kid in a candy store as he picked which one he was going to use next. Wash, defiance over, was already curling his legs towards his chest in an attempt to shield himself from whatever would come next.

The moment that they were back upstairs, Church rounded on Delta.

“That is absolutely… just… argh. You realise this is fucked, right? You're fucked. Omega's fucked. Gamma's fucked.” Gamma looked at Church and pointed at himself, as if to say 'who, me?' “Yeah, don't give me that look! This whole thing is just completely sick!”

“I didn't do the physical damage,” Gamma said calmly.

“Oh, that makes it better, doesn't it?”

“Did you have a point?” Delta asked.

“Yes! That it's disgusting!”

“If that is all you have to say, then we are done talking about it. Theta.” Delta turned to him. “Start a search for any information on Washington. If he cannot be reasoned with, perhaps he has some leverage we may find useful. Any knowledge of friends, family and anything similar.” Theta nodded, hobbling his way over to the computer. Delta raised a hand and started to ask, “Do you need help—“

“I'm fine, Delta,” Theta said, his voice on edge.

Delta lowered his hand, looking faintly troubled, before turning to Gamma. “Do the same, but research South. Just in case.” Gary nodded, before hurrying off to do so. Delta waited until he was gone, before gesturing at Church.

“We are going to go for a walk.”

“Great,” Church muttered.

They passed Eddie on the way out. He was sitting outside, drawing on the ground with some chalk. He looked up and raised an eyebrow at Church, who just shrugged irritably back. Eddie looked back down at his chalk drawings with a frown.

Delta took a few winding turns through the alleyways around the city, though never looking behind him. He just walked forward, looking grim. Church had to jog a little to keep up.

Once they were a couple of blocks away, Delta spoke.

“I require your word that nothing we say here will be repeated to the others.”

“...Okay?”

“There is strong evidence that one of us is a traitor.”

“Eh?”

Delta twisted his fingers together. One of the few times Church had seen him display any nervous tics. “The ambush. They knew we were coming. Everyone was sent to the same place, while my instructions should have sent you to two separate locations. The people you were supposed to meet were not there, and the Director should not have had his men anywhere near that warehouse. It was staged.”

“But… one of us? You sure?”

“I attempted to check my database for the discrepancy in my orders, and see where it had come from.” Delta rubbed his forehead absently before reaching into his pocket. “But when I opened the computer, the file was gone. The entire computer had been wiped. I had several protections in place to prevent such an event. This had been dropped under my bed.” He removed a memory stick from his pocket, showing it to Church. 'Cyborg2.0' had been scribbled on it in felt tip.

“'Cyborg2.0?' The fuck does that mean?”

“It is an alias. A hacker. Primarily he hacks into computers for information, then sells that information to interested parties.” Delta held up the memory stick. “The data on this stick was designed to disable my protections on it. I know of Cyborg2.0, but I do not know his identity. While we track the Director down, I will be following up on him. I will learn who our traitor is.”

“I bet it's O'Malley,” Church muttered.

“I would not rule it out,” Delta admitted. “Personally… I would have guessed Sigma, if… if not for the current circumstances.” He trailed off for a moment, looking tired as he rubbed the paint stains on his hands. “I suppose even now it couldn't be fully ruled out. But we cannot judge without evidence.”

“Since you're telling me this… does that mean I'm ruled out?”

“No. You could be the traitor.” Delta eyed him for a moment, green eyes calculating. “But I believe that you would have more to lose than to gain from doing so.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, Delta found Theta sitting in front of the computer, face resting in his hands.

“...Theta. Is something troubling you?” Delta looked at Theta, then looked at his bad leg. Then he looked away again. Looking at Theta was too hard right now. Partially because of the injury—which made him want to go down into the basement and shoot Washington, even though Washington hadn't done it—and the guilt that came with not having been able to prevent it. But also because of a little voice that sounded like Omega in the back of his head. The little voice that reminded him that Sigma had died because he ran out to save Theta.

“They're going to find us,” Theta said into his hands. “They're going to find us and they're gonna kill you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They… they're already looking. I… I found Wash's address, and I called a couple of reliable people and asked them to check out his address. Just this little flat on the other side of the city. I… I thought it would be empty, it's only been three days… but there were people there. The Director's people. They killed one of the guys I sent, and the other ran. They're looking for Wash, and they'll find him.”

“You are being irrational,” Delta said. “We are not going to get caught.”

“That's what Dad said. Then he got caught. And they almost caught us. Don't you remember?” Theta twisted his fingers nervously. “Dee, we keep getting caught. And people keep dying. And… and I don't want to do this any more. We need to stop. We need to stop before someone else dies.”

“No.”

“Dee, Dad was… he wasn't right, can't you see that? Don't you see how much he's messed us up? Children aren't supposed to learn how to handle guns! I shouldn't… I shouldn't know how to shoot people with rifles! I shouldn't have to do that! I wanna go to school and be normal!”

“Theta, you are no longer a child.”

“I know. I know, but… college is an option. I just… want to learn things and meet nice people and not shoot anyone.”

“Then go.”

Theta looked at Delta with wide, watery eyes. “I can't. Not without you. I want you to be happy, too. ...I don't think I've ever seen you happy. Not really.”

“That is not true.” Delta was sure it wasn't. Of course, he couldn't exactly recall being joyful. But… he'd been content. That was happiness, wasn't it? When the pieces clicked into place, and everything just worked?

 

* * *

 

Meta had been hiding for three days.

After being told of Sigma's death, Meta's first action had been to head right back to the warehouse. Nevermind the blood, the injuries, he had to know. Had to hope that, perhaps, Omega had been mistaken.

Omega had not been mistaken.

It had taken some waiting for the right chance to be able to sneak in and retrieve Sigma's body. He'd had to wait until they were moving it elsewhere. He didn't know where. Didn't want to know.

Carolina had been moved before he got there. He didn't know where they'd taken her, either.

It was difficult to move a dead, bloody body around with nothing but his own hands. Not because he was too weak to do so, but because just one set of eyes would draw the police to him. So he'd found an empty apartment—for rent, in a rundown building that smelt of illegal substances. No-one had come to visit. He'd broken in and brought Sigma with him once the coast was clear.

Now, Meta sat there. Sigma propped against the wall nearby. He was becoming more blatantly dead by the day. A greenish discolouration had appeared around the abdomen and started spreading. His face was hard to recognize—a good portion of the head had been destroyed by the bullet—and the wound was starting to stink. He wouldn't have long before the body started to smell enough to leak through the walls and get through the haze of smoke in some of the other apartments.

He didn't know what to do. He'd just sat there, staring at Sigma, for the last three days. Like it would bring him back. Like Sigma's corpse would revive enough to tell him what to do next.

He'd killed Sigma as surely as if he'd delivered the bullet himself. He'd run and he'd left Sigma to die. He'd hesitated when faced with Carolina, and she had died too. He'd been unable to choose between them, and it had killed them both.

Meta snarled his questions. Like Sigma would answer somehow. No response.

He was not sure he wanted to return to the others. Delta had killed Carolina. But Sigma would have wanted him there. Meta didn't quite understand what Sigma's thoughts were, where Delta was concerned, only that there was something there. Respect, at minimum. Maybe more.

And there was Epsilon. Epsilon seemed to understand him most of the time. Few people could. Sigma could. Delta and Gamma understood sporadically—

Carolina might have learned to, if Meta hadn't hesitated for that moment too long, she said she'd learn, said she'd do right this time—

If he abandoned the others, he would have no-one. And Sigma would never forgive him if he left Delta to die.

Meta stared at Sigma, at his orange eyes that were too dim, for a while longer.

He couldn't get Sigma out of this apartment without drawing attention. Not now. He would have to leave Sigma here. All that trouble to retrieve his body and he couldn't even bring Sigma with him.

He shifted closer, ignoring the smell as best he could. (He'd never smelled such a stink before, death around Meta had always happened fast and been left behind even faster.) He hesitated, before reaching out to touch Sigma's face. After a moment, he butted his forehead gently against Sigma's. What was left of it.

Let out a low rumble. Words for Sigma and Sigma alone.

He cleaned up any traces that he'd been in the apartment and left, closing the door on Sigma. For the first time in three days he checked his phone. Delta had left a text message there. An address, nothing more. Now Meta knew where to go.

What else could he do?

 

* * *

 

Church didn't have anything to do.

The problem was that currently there were no jobs. There was only this dogged pursuit of vengeance, and currently that involved nothing but information gathering. Information gathering simply wasn't Church's thing. So he had nothing to do. Nothing to distract him.

Two days after Delta told him about a possible traitor, Church was wandering the streets in little circles. Either he wandered the streets, paranoid that someone that worked for the Director would spot him and kill him, or he remained at the safehouse and listened to Wash scream. Both options were shit.

As he considered going back to the safehouse, his phone rang. He picked up.

“What?”

“Do you have to answer the phone in the most douchey way possible?” Tex asked.

Church came to a stop, frowning. “Tex? Thought you said calling made someone a wuss.”

“No, I said calling within twelve hours when you said you wouldn't call for a week was clingy. Anyway, not the point here. You wanna grab something to eat tomorrow?”

“This a date?”

“Hell no.” Tex let out a long sigh before adding, “I need something to do, alright? Shit's been going on and I just want to hang out. And you're not the most irritating person I've ever met.”

“Thanks.”

“So, we on?”

Church hesitated. He hesitated for a long time, probably long enough to weird Tex out. He knew meeting with her was a bad idea. She was a fucking cop! What if she started looking into him? What if she found out who he was? He'd already let shit slip enough by letting her know that part of his name was 'Leonard.'

But he needed someone to hang out with, too.

“…Yeah, we're on. What're we getting?”

“I dunno. Cheeseburgers?”

“Awesome. When and where?”

 

* * *

 

Epsilon was afraid, but he couldn't help but be curious about the prisoner. And he reasoned that it couldn't possibly look as bad as it sounded.

He waited until everyone else was off on jobs. Well, the ones doing the torture were. Delta and Theta were still around, but they were working on computers and not paying attention to him. As for Leo, he was with Tex. He didn't seem to care that it was a bad idea. Epsilon thought about telling Leo that he should stop, but on the other hand he didn't see his brother happy much.

Once everyone was distracted, Epsilon grabbed a sandwich and a cup of water from the basement. He'd heard Omega say that he wasn't feeding the prisoner. But Omega was a fucking weirdo, so who cared what he wanted?

He pushed open the door slowly, and realized that he'd been wrong. The prisoner looked much worse than he sounded. Not only was he bloody and beaten, as well as half his teeth missing, but his sleeve had been cut away and his left arm was covered in scarring. Most of it was in neat rows, apart from areas where larger splotchier scars had occurred or the scars became more erratic and scattered. It took a moment of staring at them to realise they were Greek letters. Some crossing over, but still recognisable as such. They were fresh and looked painful, and little specks of white glimmered here and there. There was a can of salt on the table nearby.

When Wash heard Epsilon step into the room, he immediately flinched away, curling up as best he could while chained to the pipe.

“Um...” That was all Epsilon could manage at first. Looking at the guy now, he realised how quiet Wash had actually been in comparison to the amount of pain, and that was just the obvious. “...Can you eat?”

“Who're you?” Wash's voice was slurred, unable to produce sounds quite right through the inflamed gums and missing teeth. He looked around wildly, though the blindfold still prevented him from seeing. “You're… you're not… you're not them.”

“I… I brought food. I don't know if you can eat it.”

“I said who're you? Don't know you. You one of them? Or you… someone else?” The hopeful tone in Wash's voice was very depressing.

“Sorry, I'm… I'm with them. My name's Epsilon. ...We've met before, apparently, but I didn't use that name back then. I was only, like, six.”

Epsilon didn't remember it all that well, to be honest. He remembered the death of his father, and bits and pieces of him and Leo fleeing. He had a vague impression of what he'd assumed at the time to be a ninja.

Wash went quiet for a moment, thinking. “...The kid. Three colours in your hair. When I got shot in the face by a paint gun.” He paused, then sighed. “Embarrassing.”

“...Yeahh.” Epsilon didn't remember that. But it sounded embarrassing.

He put down the plate of food and glass of water with a little clinking noise, and Wash immediately withdrew as far as he could, turning his head away with his mouth sealed shut.

“You don't want food?” Epsilon asked. “Or water?”

“I'm not falling for that again,” Wash muttered.

“Please? You have to be thirsty. Omega hasn't been down here for the last day.”

“I'm not—“

“There's nothing in it. Look, on my dad's motherfucking grave, I promise it's just water.”

Wash still seemed reluctant, but he did turn his head back. Epsilon realised there was no way for Wash to pick up the glass for himself, with his hands chained like that, so he raised the glass to Wash's lips for him. The first sip was wary, but once he realised the water really hadn't been tampered with he gulped it down quickly. A good portion of it ended up dribbling through the gaps in his teeth and down what remained of his blood-stained shirt.

“So… what's your deal?” Wash asked, once he was done with the water.

“Eh?”

“Is this some kind of Good Cop Bad Cop thing? Don't… don't think I can't see it.”

“Fuck no. I'm not even… I just live here, I'm not really part of it.”

“Liar.”

“Look, I was just… I was just curious, and also torture is stupid so I thought… y'know… I'd try and… god, I don't know. Do you want food or not?”

Wash shook his head. “Chewing hurts.”

“Uhh… well, maybe I can find something that'll go down easier. I'll be back, okay, just—“

Epsilon turned and cut off immediately. Omega was standing in the doorway, holding a sharp knife and watching the two of them. He looked amused, but there was never a time when Omega didn't look amused. Like the entire world was some big joke that only he understood.

“Oh, fuck,” Epsilon muttered under his breath.

“And what are you doing down here, hm? I believe Alpha gave you explicit orders to stay out of the way.”

“Wasn't in the way,” Epsilon retorted. “No-one was down here.”

“Mouthy today.”

“Yeah? What're you gonna do, stab me?”

This immediately struck Epsilon as the sort of phrase that usually prefaced a significant amount of stab wounds. Omega must have been thinking the same, because his grin widened.

“It's fun to think about. Never stabbed someone so young before. Well, some I didn't ask for their age, but...” Omega tailed off, playing with his knife. Epsilon stepped forward to make a move to move past him, but Omega moved an arm to bar the doorway with. “Epsilon, really? Leaving in the middle of a conversation?”

“Yeah. You can't stab me. Alpha would be pissed.”

“Ahhh, relying on nepotism, are we?” Omega hummed for a moment. “Well, I could be persuaded to let you in here. Let you do the boring stuff like feeding him and hosing him down on occasion. But you can't very well do that and not witness the fun part.”

“Wha—“

“I'm saying that you should sit down and watch.”

“I don't want to watch. It's fucking sick.”

“Guess what, Epsilon? You don't get a choice about this.” Omega grinned. “It's all about consequences. And you can tattle to Alpha afterwards all you like, but he's not here right now. And I've got nothing to lose from stabbing you except a job position. How willing are you to push me?”

Epsilon eyed the knife, then stared Omega in the face for a moment. Slowly, he stepped back and sat down in the nearest chair.

“Good boy.”

 

* * *

 

When Church got back, he heard a heaving sound coming from the bathroom, followed by a disgusting splatter. When he pushed open the door, he found Eddie on his knees in front of the toilet.

“Uh… you alright?”

There was a pause, before Eddie let out a sigh.

“It's nothing,” he muttered. “Bad sandwich.”

“You sure—“

“I said it was indigestion, alright?” Eddie snapped. “Fuck off.”

“Jesus, fine.”

 

* * *

 

When Tex got to the hospital, she found Carolina's room empty and York sitting outside, staring blankly at the wall.

“York? Hey, York!” Tex shook his shoulder lightly. York took a moment to register that she was there.

“I wasn't here,” he mumbled.

“Where's Carolina?”

York shut his eyes and shook his head. “I wasn't here. I got here, and she was gone and they won't even let me see her… her...” York covered his face. “Christ, Carolina. She was meant to wake up!”

Tex sat down next to York. She couldn't pretend she was surprised. Carolina hadn't improved in the last three weeks, and the odds of her waking up had just seemed to dwindle. Still, she'd hoped. They'd both hoped.

She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, though. Not wrong like 'her sister being dead' but… off-kilter. The lack of warning. The fact that it had happened the one time she'd finally persuaded York to go home and rest. So grief didn't set in. Only disbelief.

She felt like, perhaps, she should say something. But she didn't have words. After a while, she reached out and put a hand on York's shoulder.

“Do you need a lift home?”

“There's too much of her there,” York said into his hands.

“You can sleep at my place for a bit, if you want.”

“No. No… I think I'll… maybe a motel or something.”

“I know a place. I'll give you a lift.”

York didn't respond, only getting up when Tex got up and pulled him with her.

They made their slow way out of the hospital and into the parking lot. They were halfway across when Tex looked back at the hospital and saw two figures having a conversation. One she didn't recognise. A short woman with purple-rimmed glasses, who was gesturing with a significant amount of enthusiasm. But the other figure was all too familiar.

“...York. Can you get to the car on your own? I need to talk to someone,” Tex said. York made a noise that might have been an affirmative, but Tex had already let go of his arm and started to make her way towards her father.

The Director noticed her as she got closer, tailing off whatever he'd been saying to the stranger. It was hard to tell a lot of the time what he was thinking, but right now he looked a little wary. The stranger, on the other hand, beamed at her and practically elbowed the Director out of the way.

“Ooh, you must be Allison! I saw a family photo, but wow, you really did grow up to look like your mother, didn't you? Oh, but you probably get sick of hearing that. Where do you buy your conditioner, by the way? I'm envious of that shine.”

Tex gave the woman a 'who-the-fuck-are-you-and-why-are-you-so-cheery' look. The Director sighed.

“Grey, if you could give me and Allison a minute—“

“Oh! Of course, of course, sorry. Have fun~!” She pattered away, giving her one last wave.

“...Who the fuck was that?” Tex muttered.

“It doesn't matter.” The Director sat down on a nearby bench, gesturing for Tex to sit next to him. “I think we're long overdue for a talk, Allison.”

“That's not my name, Dad. I told you. It's Tex now. I told you time after time after—“

“This isn't the time to be rehashing old fights.”

Tex scowled, but sat down. She stared across the parking lot for a moment, both of them sitting there in awkward silence.

“...Is she actually dead?” Tex asked, not looking at the Director.

“Her chances weren't good. You know that.”

“That's not a no.”

“No. It isn't.” The Director had his hands clasped together in his lap. He was watching her. Tex wasn't looking at him, but she could feel it. “...Allison.”

“Tex,” she muttered.

“...Tex, then.” The Director looked away. “You know as well as I do that if I go into hiding that you will never find me. And it's come to that. Too many dangers to be out in the open right now.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I knew you would be.” There was a pause. “...It's not too late.”

“I'm not doing your dumb work. Fuck, I should have you arrested right now.”

“You could try. But if my men stationed around the hospital see the police arrive, there will be a shootout. They know better than to shoot at you, but a hospital is a terrible place for bystanders.”

Tex huffed.

“Your help would be invaluable to me.”

“I know it would be. But so fucking what? I'm not like Carolina, Dad. I don't buy your bullshit. And I don't intend on letting your bullshit get me injured or killed, like...” She swallowed, then her expression hardened. “What, you bringing back this deal because your best agent got a bullet to the spine? You want me to get shot too, is that it? One not enough? Maybe you want us all to go out like Mom?”

The Director flinched. “She has nothing to do with this. And the only person responsible for what happened to Carolina was the man who shot her.”

“Bullshit. You're liable. You should never have let her become one of your faceless goons. So fuck off, because I'm never going to be dumb enough to go along with it.”

She got up, and started to storm away. She only got a few steps away before the Director spoke again.

“If you don't, I can't let you see her. It's too big of a security risk. You know that.”

Tex hesitated. Just a little.

“...Then I guess that's how it's gonna have to be,” she said.

She locked it up. The anger, the grief (and Carolina might not truly be dead, but she was still hurt and she was still gone and so Tex grieved anyway), the tears… she locked that away. Until after she'd put York in a motel room, and she'd gone home, and only there could she scream and cry and throw things that made a satisfying cracking sound when they broke. Only there, where no-one could see her. 

 

* * *

 

Wash was difficult to crack. For all that he insisted that he hadn't been that high in ranking, he was withstanding whatever Omega, Gamma and Meta did to him remarkably well, although as the days pass he lost whatever scraps of anger or sarcasm that he could find to throw back, instead now focused on simply keeping himself together.

Delta could almost respect him.

“This does not have to continue, Washington.”

Besides Delta, only Meta was in the basement. Prowling and watching Washington with an oddly analytical gaze. It had been difficult to remove him from the room since he'd returned.

Wash didn't respond. Delta frowned slightly, then nodded at Meta. Meta slid over to behind the pipe Wash was chained to and grasped the back of the bike lock that encircled Wash's neck. He yanked it back with a snarl. Wash choked, his bound hands coming up to try and do something about it but being unable to find any space between the metal and the skin bulging out around it. One of those hands was still bloody. Omega had pulled out the fingernails on his right hand before leaving, and not cleaned it up very well.

“All we want is a name, Washington. And we will get that name one way or another.”

Delta gestured at Meta, and Meta let go of the bike lock. Washington rasped for breath, each breath coming out clogged. But even when he regained his breath, he didn't answer.

Delta laced his fingers together, watching Wash. Wondering why he stayed so silent. Did he feel that much loyalty? Or was it something else? What had he told Washington? He'd asked for information, and said that his answers would determine the amount of pain he went through before dying.

...Hm.

"This is a waste of time,” Delta said. “Meta. Dispose of him.”

That got a proper reaction. Wash's head jerked up a little. That's all he had time to do before Meta pulled the bike lock back again. Pulling until Wash's face started to go purple. Delta didn't doubt that his eyes would be bulging if he wasn't currently blindfolded. Wash started thrashing more frantically, his head shaking. Unable to make a sound.

Delta watched impassively. And as he did, Wash mouthed something. Delta couldn't tell what it was, but could tell from the movements that it was a word, not just something random.

“Meta. Stop.”

Meta didn't stop. He kept the lock pulled back.

“Meta!” Delta said sharply.

Meta looked at Delta, then at Washington. After a moment more, he let go. Wash wheezed and coughed. He coughed hard enough for some thick strings of what could have been blood or vomit to come up. It was hard to tell in the dim light.

It took several minutes for him to recover. Delta waited patiently. When Wash's breathing had finally evened out, he shifted his chair closer.

“Have you changed your mind, Washington? Do you have something that is worth keeping you alive for?”

Wash took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

“Price,” he said. His voice was cracked and barely above a whisper, and Delta doubted it was capable of being any louder right now.

“Who is Price?”

“The Director's second-in-command. Most people call him the Counselor. I only heard his name by chance because I… overheard a conversation I shouldn't have. One of the few people to talk to him face to face. I… I never met him. I heard his voice twice. Sort of a—“ Wash devolved into another coughing fit. Something wet hit Delta's face, an accident unlike the spiteful spit from a month ago. Delta wiped it away. “...A monotone. Creepy. Carolina was usually the one who spoke to him. It was fine by me.”

Finally. Something to go on. Not much. There would be a lot of Prices in the city, and it would take time to track down all of them and figure out which one was the right one. But it was something.

"I see.” Delta paused, then shifted a little closer. “Do you truly consider this torture better than death? Or do you think that someone will come and find you?”

Wash laughed. Possibly. It could have been more coughing.

“I don't have to live that long. I just have to outlive you.”

Delta raised an eyebrow before standing up. He turned to go, and Meta let out a questioning growl.

“...Do whatever you want, Meta. The only condition is that you leave him alive. Washington was kind enough to give us the information. It is only fair we repay him with a bit of borrowed time. Just in case his information does not pan out.”

 

* * *

 

While Delta was interrogating Wash, Church and Eddie were out of the house getting burgers in an attempt to forget what was happening. After picking up some burgers, they'd gone and sat down in a tiny, empty park. Okay, a patch of dirt with a bench. But good enough.

Eddie was picking at his burger, looking depressed. Church wasn't exactly hungry either, and only ate so he had something to do.

“...Leo?”

“Yeah?”

Eddie stared down at his burger. “How long are we going to keep Wash for?”

“I don't know.”

“Well… how long do you think it'll be before you find this guy you're looking for?”

“I don't know.”

“When will—“

“I don't fucking know, alright?!” Church snapped. “Stop annoying me with fucking questions that I can't fucking answer! Fuck!”

“...Sorry,” Eddie muttered.

Church stewed in rage for a couple of minutes before calming down. He let out a sigh.

“Sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. I'm just so… I guess it's all getting to me.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

They sat there in silence for a while longer. Eddie was picking off parts of his bun and tossing them at some pigeons that'd appeared nearby.

“...Leo, do you ever think about… quitting?”

“Quitting?”

“Yeah. Drop the criminal stuff, go and live a normal life? I mean… I doubt the cops from back home are going to find us. But if we keep going on like this...”

“You've got nothing to do with it, Eddie. If they catch us, you'll be alright.”

“That's not the point. I don't want you to get caught, do I? Just saying… you ever thought about it?”

Church couldn't pretend he hadn't. Only a month ago he'd been thinking that the criminal life wasn't all that bad. Now…

Maybe it was Sigma's death reminding him that there were very real consequences for getting something wrong in this business. Maybe it was Wash's torture that made him think that this had all gone somewhere that he didn't want to go, and that he was no longer comfortable with what he was doing.

Maybe… maybe there were some thoughts that tended to surface whenever he was with Tex.

Because he was still seeing Tex, even though he knew it was a bad idea. It would make sense to dump her. They'd almost split up around a week ago. She'd been in this horrible mood, and shouted things, and he'd shouted back, and they'd both said some nasty shit they didn't mean. But a few days later, they were back to hanging out. Eating some fast food and watching television and just talking about bullshit.

A lot of dancing around feelings. Teasing when it came to any actual signs of affection. But it was just so… normal.

Church couldn't remember the last time he felt normal. The last time he didn't feel like a criminal. The last time he wasn't worrying about shit. The last time… that would have been before Eddie.

And maybe he only then realised how much he missed normal.

“...Yeah. I've thought about it,” he said slowly. “I don't know if Delta would allow for it.”

“Maybe not with the mood he's in, yeah,” Eddie sighed. “...But after? Do you think he'd let us? Dee used to be reasonable.”

Church frowned, taking another bite of his food. He chewed slowly, giving him time to think. “...Yeah. Yeah, I… I think maybe I'll bring it up, when this is… when everything's a bit calmer. At least talk it over.”

 

* * *

 

Delta hadn't interrogated him since Wash let slip about the Counselor. He'd just been left to the mercy of Omega, Gamma and the Meta.

Mercy was not something they possessed.

Wash wasn't sure how long it had been. He wasn't sure what had happened when. He was never sure if he was awake or dreaming. Sometimes he would think something was real, and wake up to something worse. Sometimes he would dream of something happy, then wake up to nothing but this pitch darkness he was always stuck in, except for the little flashes of dim light he could scarcely make out through the blindfold.

He tried to tally time through acquired injuries, but that was all blurring together as well. The teeth had gone early, he was sure of that, because he couldn't remember being down here and having a full set of teeth left. Days (months? years?) of trying to use his tongue to push what little food he got to the side of his mouth that could still chew it.

The pain in his back, where South had shot him had grown stiffer as time went on. Moving his limbs at all—not that he could move them that far—always sent sharp pains through him. Scars had been slowly carved down his left arm, across his torso and were making their way down the other arm, but that was no judge of time. Sometimes Omega would do many carvings in a day. Other times he'd leave it for a few days or just add one more little carving each day. Often, he'd either use salt or rub in other substances that stung. At one point, Omega had claimed it was disinfectant.

“I'm just taking care of you properly,” Omega had said. “It wouldn't be fun if you died too quickly.”

Sometimes it would just be Omega. Carving and laughing and occasionally shaking it up by removing something new. On the bright side, Wash had no more fingernails or toenails for him to pull at, but there was still that other half of his teeth.

Occasionally, Omega would bring over the pliers and tap the side of Wash's face with them in an almost ponderous way. He'd always put them away again.

Sometimes Gamma would be there, either with Omega or entirely alone. He rarely touched Wash. Usually kept his distance, citing 'the stench' as his reason. That made sense. Wash was surrounded by a constant miasma of blood, sweat, urine and faeces that the occasional hosing down did little to affect. Once he'd given Wash water. It had been salty and it had made his bloody, torn gums burn and left him thirstier than before. Small, petty tricks that piled up. When he didn't, he talked to Wash. Talked in a calm voice about the horrible things they could do. Talked about Carolina. Talked about Wash himself. Little, cutting truths. Those were Gamma's methods.

Any time the hose came out Wash would always perk up a bit. It wasn't quite being clean. But it was the closest he had to a shower. It was usually Epsilon that had the hose. If was the others, they were much quicker about it. Or too slow, so that Wash started to get cold and shaky. Epsilon would always stop when Wash said it was enough.

There was Meta. The reason he was here. And while Omega seemed… not rational, exactly, but carefully considering each little cut he made into Wash, each little injury, each word said… the Meta was just blunt force. Kicking him, digging his heel into the scars that Omega left behind, snarling and howling like a wild dog. Pouring so much fury into the beatings that it was as if Wash had committed personal wrongs against him, and Wash was damn sure he'd remember meeting the Meta if they'd met before the day of the ambush.

Epsilon could calm him down, sometimes. Wash would be dizzy from being kicked in the stomach and having any remaining air driven out of him, and he'd hear footsteps and hear Epsilon's voice.

“Meta, come on. Go take a break. He's not even awake.”

Wash usually was awake when he heard these words—he didn't know if Epsilon was lying to give him a break or whether Epsilon said those words a lot more often than Wash was conscious to hear.

Meta would growl, and Epsilon would say, “He'd want you to take a break every now and again. Go get some fresh air.”

Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't.

It seemed that Epsilon was in charge of most of the nicer things that happened to him.

“Do you know how long you've been here, Washington?”

Was that being asked of him now? Was it a vivid hallucination or memory? The words were familiar. Wash didn't move or try to respond. He was tired. He just slumped, eyes shut. The only thing that stopped him falling to the floor was the bicycle lock around his neck.

Something was digging into his arm. This must be happening now.

“You've been here two whole months!” Omega said this in a faux-friendly 'gee, look how time flies when you're having fun' tone. “You know, I'm glad we've gotten to know each other like this. A little while ago and I probably would have had to dispose of you immediately. Ah, the fun of vengeance.”

Gamma let out a small 'ha.' Footsteps.

“I'm surprised no-one has come looking for him so far,” Gamma said softly. The tone of a man asking an innocent question. “Do you have family, Washington? Friends?”

Wash thought he had family. Somewhere. It was hard to remember there'd been anything beyond this basement. As for friends… he'd had Carolina. He thought he'd had South.

“We're trying to get to know you better, Wash.” There was a laugh. Omega gripped his chin, forcing his face up to face them. He didn't seem bothered by the spit, amongst other substances, that had dried and matted into the beard growing on Wash's face. Wash still didn't respond. He drooled a bit, but he couldn't help that even if he'd wanted to. “Two months and we barely know each other at all. It's tragic.”

“Well, we know some things. Epsilon has been a help in that regard.”

Epsilon talked to Wash a lot. Normally, it wasn't about anything important.

“—and how the fuck can someone be a vampire, mummy and a werewolf simultaneously? Like that doesn't make sense. I ain't never heard of an Egyptian vampire. It's too sunny there! But mummies have to be from Egypt, that's where they're fucking made!”

Maybe because it was so… pointless… that Wash started answering back.

“But that's the whole foundation of the series,” Wash had croaked.

“It's still bullshit!”

“It's supposed to be bullshit. That's what makes the Vampire Mummy Werewolf series fun.”

“For the record,” Omega said in the present(?), “That series was inane in the worst way.”

He shouldn't be surprised that Omega knew about that conversation. Epsilon was probably telling them every word that Wash spared for him. Epsilon was one of them, no matter how nice he was.

“Alright, listen, I'm just saying the one with the Wasp Lizard Woman was the best so far.”

“Wasn't.”

“Was. Even if that makes as little sense as a Vampire Mummy Werewolf.”

“Still wasn't. It was good. It wasn't that good.”

“Pshhh.”

Regardless of whose side Epsilon was on, his visits—the inane, pointless conversations and the little glimmers of kindness in this pit—were the only bright points of a long stretch of jumbled pain. They were some of the clearest moments of this basement.

And they made everything else so much worse.

Whenever Epsilon stopped talking, and there was that pause, and Epsilon muttered, “Oh shit, I need to go.” And Wash wanted to beg for him to not leave. Please, please, please keep talking, please stay. Don't leave me alone with them. Don't leave me alone in this basement. If his arms weren't so often bound together, if he wasn't chained to this pipe, he might have grabbed Epsilon's leg and clung on like a crying child.

He felt a knife dig lines along his arm, curving and making shapes. He didn't know what the shapes were, just that they now covered most of his torso and arms. The pattern was familiar. Repetitive. When had the last one been? A week ago? A day? Five minutes?

He knew Epsilon had to be working an angle with him. He knew everyone else's angle. Omega with his knives, Gamma with words that cut—yes, he knew no-one was looking for him, he knew, he knew, who would—and Meta with that endless rage channelled into blows. Everyone else was either easy to figure out or too irrelevant to matter—Delta wanted revenge and information in that order, Theta only flitted in on occasion to retrieve the other people who came down here, Alpha was a mystery but he wasn't present enough to be worth thinking about—but Epsilon…

What the fuck was Epsilon? What did he want? What made him sit there, breathing in this horrible stench and watching Wash, expressing those little bits of kindness but never being kind enough to set him free?

Wash fell asleep with a knife being dug into him. He woke up—or thought he woke up—to a teenaged boy with three colours dyed into his hair and facial features that couldn't quite be made out, chattering about wonderfully bad movie franchises before plunging a dagger into him over and over.

He woke up for real and a knife was still inside him. He fell asleep. He woke up to pliers being rubbed on his cheek, and Omega muttering to himself. He fell asleep.

He wanted Epsilon to come back, and dreaded it at the same time. Was that the plan? Was that it? Was Epsilon just here to break him further by providing him with a glimpse of hope?

“Hey.”

Wash would not be tricked. He would not be beaten.

“Are you allergic to peanut butter? Do you think that'll make your gums hurt more?”

One thoughtful question about allergies. That was the straw that broke it all.

“Get away from me.”

“What? I just—“

“Get away. Get away. Get the FUCK away from me!” Wash screamed. “I know what you're doing! I know what you're doing and it's not working! You're not going to trick me! You're not going to beat me! Get the fuck away! Get the fuck away! Let me out! I want out!”

If he could get out, he'd be free! He'd be safe! He wanted out! He'd get out! Wash started straining hard against the bike lock, against the bindings on his arms and legs, and goddamn it he didn't care if he choked or if he had to chew through his wrists to get his hands free. He wanted out he wanted out HE WANTED OUT—

By the time he'd tired himself out, Epsilon was gone. Wash breathed hard, his brief burst of energy having left him more exhausted than ever.

“They won't beat me,” he muttered. He slumped against the pipe. “They won't beat me. They won't beat me. They won't beat me...”

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck is going on?” Church asked.

Three months after the ambush, Church arrived in the kitchen after another meeting with Tex. He arrived to find Theta sitting at the table, hands clasped over his head and tears pouring down his face. Delta stood over him, white with fury. His voice wasn't raised, but there was anger radiating from every syllable.

“I gave no clearance for this. I gave no clearance for you to amble into what could have been another ambush. You did not tell me of this. You did not double-check your facts with me. You simply left.”

“It was all okay! I triple-checked! And I got the information!” Theta sobbed. “Why are you so mad?”

“You were irresponsible, Theta. You should have—“

“Should have what, Dee?! I knew what to do, and you wouldn't have let me go!”

“That is the precise point I am making,” Delta hissed. “You should not have been there.”

“I did fine! I did it. I'm just as good at this as the others, you know! I'm the best at guns! Just… just because I messed up during the ambush… I… I didn't think things were going to go that bad.” He rubbed his bad leg. It had been three months, and it had largely healed, but Theta still walked with a slight limp. “I know I caused Sigma's death, so let me make up for it!”

Delta stopped for a moment, suddenly at a loss for words. Then he sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“I never said you were,” he muttered.

“You never said I wasn't, either,” Theta said quietly.

“Would someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Church said.

Theta wiped his eyes angrily before shoving a piece of paper across the table towards Church. “Aiden Price. His address. I found a lead, I followed it and I got what we needed.”

“You seriously found it?” Church picked up the piece of paper. “So what's the shouting all about?”

“I don't know!” Theta snapped. “Apparently I did the wrong thing!”

“Jeez, Delta, what are you on? Kid did good.”

“I'm twenty-five,” Theta muttered under his breath.

“Better than we've gotten in months,” Church continued. “Why are you so mad?”

“He was not supposed to go. He could have been killed, and none of us would have even known about it.”

“I told Gamma.”

“You should have told me or Alpha. Not Gamma.” Delta stared at Theta with such a foreboding look that it nearly drove Theta back to tears. Delta stayed like that for a few moments before pointing. “Go to your room.”

Theta glared back for a moment before leaving. Church blinked, still a little confused. He knew if Epsilon had charged into such a situation that he'd be upset, too. But it wasn't like this was the first time Theta had been out in the field. And he really was the best sniper they had.

Delta covered his face for a moment, regaining composure, before turning to Church. “Outside. I want to discuss something.”

Church followed Delta out the door. Epsilon was sitting on the doorstep, chin propped in his hands and pushing Theta's skateboard back and forth with one hand. He glanced up at Church and Delta before shifting aside so they could get past easier.

Delta waited until they were a couple of blocks away from the safehouse before speaking.

“I have located Cyborg2.0. His name is Dick Simmons. He lives in an apartment within two miles of this house. His business lies primarily in hacking into people's computers and phones, tracking them and other similar activities. He seems to have no affiliations apart from whoever offers him the most money. I have had difficulty breaking into his computer from home, and may have to do it in person. I will do so within the week.”

“It's about fucking time you found him.”

“It proved harder than I had anticipated to track him down. I will acquire the information needed to reveal the traitor while you and Meta acquire information from the Counselor.”

Church frowned. “You're sending Meta? You sure? He's been kind of—“

“Agitated. Reckless. Occasionally difficult to control,” Delta admitted. “I am hoping that having a more active hand in acquiring vengeance will help. Channelling the energy in the right direction. More importantly, I am most certain of the fact that neither you or Meta are the traitor. While possible… Meta brought Washington to us.”

“Yeah… which reminds me.” Church stopped walking and rounded on Delta. “We've got what we needed from Wash. Why is he still here?”

“We cannot let him go, Alpha.”

“Fuck, I know we can't. You think I don't know? But we should have, y'know… disposed of him. We're just drawing it out. It's fucking inhumane.”

Delta stared off into the distance thoughtfully. “I think it is prudent that we keep him until the Director has been eliminated.”

“Why?! Come on, you're just making excuses.” Church jabbed his thumb in the direction of the safehouse. “Have you listened to him? He's not even making sense! He's a gibbering potato. He's not going to give us anything else, even if he has kept something hidden. We broke him, dude.”

“We do not—“

“We do know that, Dee! You know this, goddammit, you're the logical one! So what the fuck are you even keeping him there for? Is it about Sigma? Is it about revenge? You can't torture Carolina so you go for the closest thing to her you can get?”

Delta twisted his hands together nervously. “This is not about Carolina.”

“Bullshit, Dee. Ever since the ambush you've been messed up.”

“It… it is not like that...”

“Then what is it like?”

Delta continued fidgeting with his fingers, a tic that Church more often saw in Theta. “...I will admit. I have been emotionally compromised by… certain events. Perhaps that has occasionally clouded my judgement.” He blinked rapidly for a moment. “But it is not just… emotions.” The way he pronounced 'emotions' made it sound like a dirty word. “I… I am not 100% sure how to proceed.”

“No shit, Dee. We're all floating around here.”

“No. I mean… ever since I took over Father's business, Sigma has been there. Whenever a plan required more than pure logic—and it always did—Sigma would suggest a course of action. I no longer have that. I require Sigma's creativity and spontaneity to proceed. I have tried to mimic his train of thought.” Delta rubbed his fingers. There were still faint paint stains on them. “But I do not know how. And if I do not proceed correctly, there is a very high chance that someone will die. Next time, Theta might not escape with only a limp.”

Delta traced the paint stains on his fingers for a few moments longer.

“It is not simply due to revenge that I keep Washington locked away. If we eliminate him, we cannot reverse that action. And I am much less sure than I would be under normal circumstances.”

Church frowned, rubbing his chin as he considered this. “...Yeah, uh… fuck that, Dee. Look, forget what Sigma might have done, Dee. He ain't here now. He can't tell us what he would have done, so we just gotta do… well, what makes fucking sense. And what makes sense is to get rid of Wash. He's not going to tell us anything new, so we should put him out of his misery. That's logic. And that choice won't kill anyone. Well… no-one it shouldn't kill.” Church met Delta's eyes sternly. “If you gotta listen to someone to figure this stuff out… well, you listen to me, okay? Besides, I'm the Alpha, aren't I? What I say should mean something.”

Delta studied Church's face carefully. After a few moments, he stopped playing with his fingers and nodded once.

“We will dispose of him once we have spoken to the Councilor.”

“I guess that's better than nothing.”

Neither of them heard or saw Epsilon hiding nearby, back pressed to the brick wall of a nearby building as he listened with a worried expression on his face.

 

* * *

 

“Wuss.”

“What?”

“Cuddling? Really?” Tex tilted her head and grinned at Church. She felt warm and soft, even with all the muscle. Church rolled his eyes in response, arms still wrapped around her, before pressing his face into her shoulder.

God, he had never been so fucking comfortable.

“I don't see you moving away,” he said.

“What? Not like I said stop. Just saying. Wuss.”

“Pfft.”

Church felt sleepy. A large part of him wanted to ask if he could stay the night, or at least just stay like this for a while longer. But he had to go back soon. He couldn't leave Eddie alone in that house—with a vengeance-filled Delta and Omega and a madman underneath the floorboards—for so long.

He absently played with Tex's hair. He'd occasionally read books where the girls always smelled like strawberries or some shit. Tex just smelt like… well, soap. Not a smell he'd ever thought was nice, just neutral. But he liked it now.

He wondered if it was too soon for daydreams of Tex in a white dress to be floating around his head. Probably too soon. Oh well, no big deal as long as he kept them to himself.

“Hey, Tex?” he mumbled sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“You want to go on, I dunno, a proper date sometime? Like, to a restaurant and shit?”

“What brought that on?”

“I dunno. Sounded kind of nice. I mean, I've never done it before, but—“

“You've never been on a proper date? Nerd.”

“Shut up.”

“I guess it is in your name.”

“Low-hanging fruit, Tex. Anyway, I just… fuck, forget it.”

Church withdrew his hand from Tex's hair, somewhat put-out, but Tex immediately grabbed his wrist before rolling over to face him.

“When you say restaurant you mean, like… middle of the road fancy, yeah?”

“Uh, you know… one of those places with the nice candles but that won't make go broke.”

“Classy.”

“Reasonably-priced classy, yeah.”

“I'm in as long as they got some decent steak. I know a place if you're down with that.”

“Sure, I don't know shit about restaurants. You can pick.” Church grinned. “So, uh, a couple of days from now? Long as it's at night because, uh… I got some shit to do during the day.”

That shit was 'tracking down the Councilor and either getting info from him or beating his skull in.' Which kind of put a dampener on things. But he knew he'd need something to look forward to through that.

“Deal. I'll text you the time.” Tex returned his grin before giving him a little push. “Don't you have something to be doing, though?”

“What? Oh, right. Yeah, I better get home. Make sure Otto's doing fine.” Church reluctantly rolled out of Tex's bed and picked up his pants, doing an awkward hop as he tried to pull them on.

As he retrieved his shirt, his eyes landed on a nearby photograph sitting on top of Tex's drawers. At first he thought it was a longer-haired Tex holding two daughters, and his first thought was 'oh god, have I been dating a married woman?' (Like, he'd be relatively fine with it as long as she wasn't currently married because he wasn't sure if he could beat her theoretical husband in a fight.)

A moment later, his brain put the two children—blond and red-haired—with Tex and that sister she'd been arguing with the night they met, and realised that Tex was the small girl trying to squirm out of her mother's grip.

Tex, presumably noticing where his gaze was, let out a little huff.

“Do me a favour. Do not tell me how much she looks like me,” she grumbled. “I've been hearing that far too often lately.”

“Alright?”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Delta approached the apartment of Cyborg2.0.

If no-one was at home, this would be easier. However, he also knew that was very unlikely. Considering Simmons' work, it seemed like most of his time would be spent at his computer. That would make this very difficult.

If it came to the worst, Delta had a gun in his bag.

As he approached the building, ready to pull open the door, it was shoved open and a torrent of arguing burst forth.

“I keep telling you, I don't want burgers! I'm a vegan!”

“What the fuck? Meat is awesome. What planet have you been living on? Fucking… weirdo vegan planet? You gotta expand your palette, Simmons.”

“No. Nooo, I really don't.”

Delta had to step back to stop himself from bumping into the chubbier of the two. He'd said the name Simmons, so the gangly, racially ambiguous man must be Cyborg2.0. Delta mentally filed his appearance away, just in case. Then he headed inside, now less nervous.

Leaving a body up there would have likely caused more problems than it solved.

The door was locked. It didn't take long for Delta to get past that. His father would have been disappointed if he'd been stopped by such an average lock. The room with the computer in it had a lock on it, but hadn't actually been locked. The screwdriver on a table nearby implied that it had been put on only minutes ago.

The computer itself… now that was trickier. Not beyond Delta's skill. But Simmons knew how to keep his files protected. It took Delta half an hour, as he kept an ear out for Simmons and the large, meat-loving man he was with.

A search for the program that would have successfully wiped Delta's computer turned up several results in Simmons' files for who'd ordered such things. One codename caught his attention.

Gamma.

Delta couldn't find it in him to be surprised.

Delta copied the file to his memory stick and got out of there as quickly as possible, while doing his best to leave everything as he'd found it.

In the lobby of the apartments, he stopped by the mailbox. He removed a letter from his bag and pushed it in. A friendly warning and nothing more. Simmons was only hired help. Delta could let this infraction slide. Just this once.

 

* * *

 

Once they knew where he was, Aiden Price was not a hard man to corner. His home wasn't guarded, and was not far from the road, but separate enough so that there wouldn't be any nosy neighbors peeking in to look at what he was up to.

“You gonna be calm about this?” Church said to Meta. “I know you're as pissed as Delta, but we need this guy.”

Meta nodded grimly, glaring at the house. Church let out a long breath, before they both climbed out and headed towards the house. Church couldn't help but feel nervous. If it was just him approaching the house, he knew he wouldn't look that suspicious. But Meta was a terrifying man. Still, they walked slow and approached the house.

“Go around the back, in case he tries to escape,” Church told Meta, who nodded and slinked around the house.

In all honesty, this was not a very detailed plan.

 

Step 1: Enter house.

Step 2: Find Price.

Step 3: Point gun and maybe pistol whip him a bit until he tells them where the Director is.

Step 4: Kill him.

 

Could be worse. They knew, from Theta's information, that Price was the only person who lived there. No family to worry about. Church was thankful for that. He'd crossed a lot of lines, but he didn't want to become a child killer. Even just through collateral damage.

Church hadn't picked locks in a while, not since he'd become Alpha, but it came back to him pretty quickly. Even if he hadn't managed, he could always have been crude and thrown a rock through the sizeable windows. It was a nice house, but not secure at all.

He stepped into the hallway, then started to quietly make his way to the nearest room, checking it for the target. Living room? Nothing. Kitchen? Nothing.

He passed the back door at about the same time as Meta opened it, gripping his handgun and already having it raised to pistol whip Price. Church gave him a look, and Meta rolled his eyes before turning the handgun around so that he was pointing it again.

Bathroom? Empty. Bedroom? Empty.

They found him in the fifth room. A cosy little library with the sort of leather armchair that those assholes in smoking jackets from the movies always sat in. Price was in that chair, reading a hardcover book that looked heavy and probably pretentious.

Price looked up to see Church and Meta standing there, pointing their guns at him. Neither of them moved for a full ten seconds. Confusion flitted across Price's face for a moment before he returned to a neutral expression.

After ten full seconds of silence Price said, “I assume you want something.”

“Good fucking guess,” Church said. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

“If you insist.” Price bookmarked his page and placed the book down before raising his hands.

“Okay. Okay...” Church nodded at Meta, who then edged closer. He turned back to Price. “So… we hear you know where the Director is.”

Price studied Church for a moment. “...Am I correct in assuming that you're one of the Greek letters?” He looked up at Meta. “Ah. Agent Maine. You're much bigger in person—“

Meta smacked Price in the face with the handle of his gun.

“Jesus, Meta, hold your fucking horses!” Church yelled, waving his hand at Meta. “Yeah. Yeah, you'd be right.”

Price covered his nose, his nose now significantly dented and leaking blood down his face. Despite this—somehow—his voice was still calm.

“I assume, then, that you have Agent Washington. I suspect that is what led you here.”

“You'd be right.” Church grinned at Price, although it didn't reach his eyes and made him feel kind of sick. “Took a while to crack him. But he spoke. And so will you. So the question is, Price, are you going to play it the easy way or the hard way? Because Wash played it the hard way, and he's not looking so good now.”

Meta let out a low growl, looming over Price.

Price stared up at Meta, then over at Alpha. He seemed to consider his situation for a moment.

“I can see that there's no way out of this,” he said. “So I propose a deal.”

“You don't get to propose deals, you're a hostage!”

“I think this would work out better for everyone if we entered into a mutual agreement,” Price said. “I will give you all the information on the Director's location. Where he is. How many guards. Where the weakest points are. In exchange… you let me live. Preferably with no significant bodily damage.”

Church frowned. He lowered his gun a little. “Aren't you supposed to be loyal?”

“I would prefer to stay loyal. But staying loyal in this situation would ensure my death.”

“And what's to stop us from killing you anyway?”

Price shrugged. “Nothing except your word. What I do know is that, statistically, information gathered from a torture victim is often incorrect. You got the right information with Washington, but you cannot guarantee a second success.”

Church exchanged glances with Meta, who raised his gun a little and raised his eyebrows, as if to say 'can I kill him now instead?' Church waved for Meta to hold steady before gesturing for Price to stand up. Price did so.

“Fine, here's the deal. You're coming with us, after we check you for weapons or electronics or anything you can use to either damage us or send for help. You will be kept tied up and guarded, but otherwise unharmed. And if we like the results that your information gives us, we let you go. But lead us wrong, and we kill you. You got that?”

“That seems reasonable,” Price said.

“Alright.”

After the awkward process of getting Price to strip so that Church and Meta could make absolute sure that he had nothing dangerous on him—no chances could be taken here—they escorted him to their van. He was put in the back, and Meta stayed back there to guard him while Church climbed into the front to drive.

He was about to turn the engine on when his phone rang. Church checked who was calling, expecting it to be Tex. But that couldn't be right, Tex knew he was busy today, it was tonight they were—

It was Delta.

“Get back right now. We have a serious problem.”

 

* * *

 

Wash was tired. He was so tired.

He didn't distinguish between one moment and the next any more. Everything was a dark blur of pain, torture and the knowledge that no-one was ever going to help him. He'd been as broken as he could be by this basement. That meant there was nowhere to go but up.

He couldn't see. The pain of the scars and wounds that now covered most of his upper body and patches on his legs were dim. He was used to the stench. He couldn't summon the energy to care.

And then light. The slight flare behind the blindfold that meant someone had turned the lights on and entered the room.

“Wash.”

Fingers touched his neck, and Wash flipped out.

“No! No, I don't… new trick! I'm not gonna… no...” Wash recoiled, shrinking. “Don't hurt me, don't… I don't know anything...”

There was a noise. A little metallic noise. The metallic ring that attached him to the pipe, the ring that Meta had tugged on to strangle him, was gone. Wash was stunned. He was so stunned that he barely noticed the restraints on his arms and legs being removed.

“Wash, you have to listen to me.” That voice… that was Epsilon. Trying a new good cop trick. Of course, it suddenly made sense. Wash was being teased with escape. “They're gonna kill you when they get back. I'm not gonna let it happen. I'm gonna get in big trouble, but Le—um, Alpha… he can protect me, I think.”

Wash reached up to touch his neck. It was rubbed raw and bloody where the lock had been, and sharp pains shot through his joints as he moved.

“I just… fuck, you need clothes, don't you? I… I think with how, um… bony you are that you'll fit my clothes, just… hold on.” Wash heard footsteps move away, clunking back up the stairs. The moment the footsteps were gone, Wash raised his hands and, with some fumbling, untied the blindfold.

Light. Not the dim little flares he'd see on occasion. The feeling where you'd wake up in the middle of the night and turn on your little bedside lamp, and then have to squint because it was so bright. The brightness of staring into the sun. But a million times worse. Wash couldn't see. It hurt more than the scars, the beatings, the crushing sense of defeat.

Wash screamed. He covered his eyes. But even then, he knew.

If he could play this right… it was a trick, but if he played it right…

Screwing his eyes shut, he crawled in the direction that the little clinks of Omega picking up his tools had always come from. He put out one hand after another, crawling and reaching to find that table. He touched a table leg. He reached on top of it and let out a hiss as he cut his finger open on something sharp. He didn't pull it back—physical pain was not new. He just felt until he touched a handle.

He'd found a knife. A knife that had probably burrowed into his skin hundreds of times by now.

As he did, he heard footsteps, walking on the floor above his head. Wash crawled. To be more exact, he used his arms to pull the rest of him along. His legs didn't want to work. His arms had moved on occasion in the last three months, but his legs had barely budged and were now paying the price.

Left arm… drag forward… right arm… drag forward… the knife in his right hand scraped the ground each time he reached forward with that hand.

Pain gathered around that little bundle of scar tissue in his back, where South had shot him. There wasn't a bit of him that didn't hurt. Each movement, part of him wanted to give up.

He heard footsteps starting to make their way down the stairs.

They would not beat him. He would not die here. He would not lose this sick game.

Squinting through the blinding light, Wash saw a dark, humanoid shape appear, holding some sort of bundle.

Wash lashed out with the knife. He slashed at the boy's ankle and dug into the tendons. The screaming should have been horrible, but to Wash it was music. It meant he was winning, and that this fucker would never bring him false hope and kindness ever again.

He saw the dark shape flail and hit the ground, unable to stand on his ruined ankle. Wash lunged. He was weak. All that was keeping him going was willpower, and the only reason the attack had succeeded is because he'd surprised Epsilon. It was all that stood between him and defeat.

With that lunge, Wash plunged his knife into the boy. Just once. It was all his tired arms could manage. The screeches of pain from Epsilon cut out as the wind was driven out of him by the blade in his stomach.

Wash started to laugh. A mad laugh that almost sounded like screaming.

“I… I win! I told you! I told you that you couldn't trick me. I told you! I told you! You… you haven't beaten me!” he screamed. “I win! I win. I win...”

Wash wrenched the knife out, and it fell from his hands onto the floor. He turned from the form that was starting to lose movement, and crawled his way over to the stairs. It took him a good ten minutes to pull himself up the tiny amount of stairs, but he kept going. He kept crawling until he was out of the house, still laughing. He couldn't have even said why he was laughing.

He'd never figure it out. Wash would never be able to recall a large amount of what happened in the basement, and that last month would always be a blur. The next thing Wash would be clearly able to remember is waking up in the mental hospital. He'd never remember how he escaped at all.

 

* * *

 

Not long after, Gary entered the safehouse. He considered himself an intelligent man, but it didn't take intelligence to know that something was off when the front door was open and blood was smeared on the door handle.

Gary frowned before entering slowly. Thinking, for a moment, that O'Malley had just been careless and not washed his hands. But no, O'Malley always washed his hands, always humming that little tune as he did so.

Further in, bloody hand prints had been rubbed into the carpet. They led to the basement.

“O'Malley? Meta? Are you down here?” Gary called out. No, they were doing work, they wouldn't be here so—

He sped up and climbed down the steps, almost slipping and steadying himself against the wall. He saw the body lying on the floor.

“...Oh.”

Gary moved quickly to Epsilon's side. His face was chalk white and he was unconscious, one hand loosely pressed to the wound. Gary checked his pulse.

...Faint. But still there.

He looked towards the pipes that Wash had been tied to. Nothing there. Wash was gone.

Gary kept scanning the room, and saw the knife lying near Epsilon. O'Malley's knife. He'd warned O'Malley about not leaving his instruments lying around. He picked it up. O'Malley hated his things being left on the floor, especially his favourite knives.

That was when he heard a voice behind him.

“Gamma.”

Gamma turned to see a gun pointed at him. He noticed that before he saw that Delta was the one holding it.

“You should not have betrayed us,” Delta said.

“Wait a—“

The last thing Gary heard was a gunshot.

Delta pushed Gary's body away with his foot before kneeling down to check Epsilon's pulse. Then he pulled out his phone.

He dialed O'Malley's number first, alerting him to the need for medical aid—leaving out Gamma, for the moment—before calling Church.

“Get back right now. We have a serious problem.”

If it had been Theta, Delta would have wanted to know as soon as possible.


	21. Flashback Seven - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seventh flashback out of eight, continuing the story of how the main six inmates ended up in prison. This part contains the stories of the others.
> 
> Grif and Simmons realise the full extent of what they've done, and the consequences start to catch up with them. Tucker's money theft is also found out, and the C.Ts decide that retribution is necessary. Caboose is found by Sheila and experiences his nineteenth birthday. Donut has a chat with his mother and tries to get Maine to leave the apartment for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I have to confirm, considering Season 14 - the Sam in Grif and Simmons' backstory is the Sam that Carolina knocks out in Season 12 Episode 11. Not Locus!Sam. Just in case.

**Grif and Simmons**

 

Simmons yawned as he poured himself more coffee. He was tired. He didn't know if it was the fear that someone would figure out he and Grif had beat a dude's ass or the adrenaline from the same incident, or just worrying over Sister, or maybe circumstance… the point was he hadn't been able to sleep at all last night. Unlike Grif, who had slept like a log the moment they got back.

Lazy bastard.

The television was running in the background. Grif had been watching something before he left to pick up Sister from the hospital. Now the news was going.

Simmons wasn't paying much attention to it. But as he sat down, putting a little container of vanilla yoghurt on the coffee table and grimacing at the various rings left by Grif's beers on its surface, he heard—

“—a body was found late last night—“

Simmons glanced at the screen, then, and promptly choked on the mouthful of coffee he was currently drinking. Covering his mouth so that he didn't spray coffee all over the sofa, he stared at the screen that was currently displaying a street. The body couldn't be seen, only the police tape barring anyone from entering the alleyway. But Simmons recognised it.

“—various illegal substances were concealed on the body, leading police to suspect that—“

“Fuck,” Simmons muttered.

“—the body is still being identified, as no identification was found on the—“

“Fuck!” Simmons said louder, putting his cup of coffee down.

He'd killed a man. He and Grif had just killed a man.

“...Ohhh, fuck,” he said, this time very quietly.

 

* * *

 

“I'm gonna throw up,” Sister announced.

“Don't be overdramatic,” Grif grumbled.

“Not my fault you drive like a crazy person.”

Sister climbed out of the car. She still looked exhausted, but it was a relief to see her up and about, even if she was currently—in an overdramatic display of how happy she was to be out of Grif's car—lying face-first on the grass and professing her feelings for the ground.

Grif rolled his eyes, although he was grinning a little. Taking the asshole that had hurt her down a peg had really boosted his mood. Sure, there was that nagging worry about where his wallet had gone, but it hadn't had anything too essential in it. And if he got called out for beating up a dude, well, he'd take that hit. Worth it.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You can stop humping the ground now.”

“I'm not humping it. I'm just, y'know, tenderly embracing it or whatever. Grass doesn't have a dick to hump. Or vagina or whatever,” Sister said, getting up and brushing off her clothes.

“Gross.”

Sister pulled a face at him before heading inside. Grif, sticking the keys back in his pocket, headed back upstairs. He still had half an hour before his job started. Which, obviously, meant he had an hour to get there. Enough time to have a short nap, maybe.

He pushed open the apartment door and attempted to toss his keys onto the coffee table, but they missed and ended up on the floor. Before he could internally debate whether to pick them up now or leave that for Future Grif to do, someone grabbed his arm.

“Eh? Simmons, what the—were you just waiting there?”

Simmons made a 'shush' gesture before dragging Grif out of the living room and into his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

“Dude, what's—“

“We killed him!” Simmons whispered.

“Er, what?”

“Sam! It was on the news! He's fucking dead! We killed him and we're gonna go to jail forever! Do you know what they do to guys like me?! It's not pretty! I'm too young to dieee.”

“Simmons, calm down.”

“You calm down!”

“Simmons! Simmons. Shhh.” Grif put his hands on Simmons' shoulders. “Deep breaths. Deep breaths, okay?”

Simmons bounced on his feet anxiously, but slowly he started to calm down. Taking deep breaths, like Grif said. Grif waited until it didn't look like he was going to pass out, then let go of his shoulders.

“Good?”

“...I don't know.”

“Yeah.” Grif paced for a moment before sitting on Simmons' bed. After a moment of consideration, he frowned at the floor. “Weird.”

“What's weird?”

“...I should feel bad about killing a guy, shouldn't I?”

Simmons shrugged. “Sam was an asshole.”

“Yeah. You're right. Still, it's kind of a… you know, the thing where the guys don't feel nothing?”

“God, Grif, forget about that. There are cops looking at this body that we fucking bludgeoned. What are we gonna do?”

Grif scratched his wrist absently. “...What can we do, really? We just do what we always do. And I guess...” He trailed off before shrugging. “We can't exactly un-kill him, can we?”

“...Fuck,” Simmons muttered.

“Right?”

 

* * *

 

Simmons didn't make much progress working that day. He was too busy worrying about ifs and buts and mights. He stared at pages of code without absorbing a word of it, before giving it up for the day and playing solitaire instead.

He'd feel calmer if Grif was there, but Grif didn't work from home like he did. Sister was around the house, and Simmons had heard the noise of a couple of her friends stopping by to check on her earlier. He'd stayed in his room while they were there. Sister was fine now, but that was far too strong a concentration of girls.

When someone else knocked at the door, he assumed it was another friend of Sister's. Until he heard the door open, and Sister say the word 'cops.' He froze, not moving a millimeter as he listened.

“So, you're cops or something? I've never had a cop over here before! Well, once my friend needed somewhere to hold a bachelorette party, but that wasn't really a cop. That was just a stripper dressed as a cop. And then Grif yelled at me because 'he doesn't need to see that much package waving around his apartment.' Anyway, my point being that cop uniforms are totally hot.”

Simmons quickly felt around for his mobile phone. Grif would have been near finishing work by now, or out and at the shops looking for oreos or other junk food.

“Nooo, I'm Kaikaina Grif. Not Dex. Seriously, do I look like Dex to you? Dex doesn't have boobs this sweet. Look at this rack! Hey, I'll let you touch if I can play around with your handcuffs? Wink?”

Simmons thanked whatever gods or sciences that controlled the world that Sister was such a motormouth.

“No, he's not here. He's at work or something, I don't fucking know. He loses his job like every couple of months. Besides, I don't have to answer questions. I can call a lawyer. I totally have rights. I read it somewhere and everything.”

Simmons finally located his phone and saw that there was a text message from Grif on it. He'd switched his phone off earlier because Grif kept sending him texts about zombie plans, and forgotten to switch it back on again.

The text message was short, but said everything that needed to be said.

**OH SHT COPS FKN RUN**

Simmons had already been sweating at the knowledge that the cops were at the front door. Now that he knew they'd found Grif, his nerves were in full overdrive. He quickly deleted the text before getting to his feet.

If they were at the front door it was too late to run. He'd just have to go out there and face the music, hoping that they didn't have enough to arrest him on.

He left his room, heart beating furiously. Funny. He thought the cops would charge in dramatically, kicking down the door and waving guns. Instead, there was one man standing at the door. He stared at Sister with bemusement and exasperation while Sister talked at him a mile a minute.

“—point is that I totally deserve a lawyer. What are you even doing here?”

The man spotted Simmons and stepped a little to the side to avoid Sister. As Simmons glanced out the window, from their apartment he could see a cop car outside. Another cop was in the front seat, scanning the street.

“Richard Simmons?” the man asked. It was one of the few times anyone had ever said Simmons' full name without laughing.

“Yeah?”

“I'm Detective Max Gain. I'd like to ask you and Kaikaina a few questions.”

That was a better introduction than 'you are under arrest.'

“Call a lawyer,” Sister stage-whispered.

If Simmons knew anything with dealing with authority it was this: be polite, agreeable and don't give them any reason to believe you beat in a man's skull with a baseball bat.

“Uh, sure. Come in, sit down. Do you want coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

They moved into the kitchen anywhere, since it was where the table was. Max sat down before rifling through his bag. Simmons glanced at Sister, who raised an eyebrow at him before plopping into her seat. Simmons sat down, fiddling with his hands.

“Now, then...” Max removed a photo from his bag and showed it to them. “Is this man familiar to you?”

Simmons bit back any response that came to mind. He was definitely staring at a photo of Sam, although it took him a moment to be sure because the picture was of daylight and didn't feature Sam's douchey sunglasses. He just shook his head.

“Oh, yeah, him!” Sister said. “I know him! He was my deaaall—do? Dildo? Uh, y'know, like… friends with benefits! Benefits and dildos!”

“Oh god,” Simmons muttered.

Max stared at Sister for a moment before shifting a little to face her. “Did you see this man yesterday?”

“No. I was in the hospital, I didn't see anyone except Grif, Simmons and some doctors and nurses.”

“Why were you in the hospital?”

“Confidential! That's totally a thing, too. I don't have to tell you, and my doctors don't have to unless they think not telling will kill someone. Which it totally won't. Boom.” Sister finger gunned at him with both hands. “Checkmate.”

“She's… technically right,” Simmons said quietly.

“What do you mean just 'technically?'” Sister protested.

“Well, in any case, it's a definite alibi.” Max turned to Simmons. “And you haven't met him?” When Simmons shook his head, Max continued, “Where were you last night?”

“Like… what time last night? Me and Grif got back from seeing Sister pretty late, and then I just mucked around on my computer and went to bed.”

“Where was Grif?”

“I'm not his babysitter,” Simmons said, defensive tones creeping into his voice. “He was here when I went into my room for the night.”

“I see.” Max turned most of his attention back to Sister. “I'm sorry to inform you that his body was found in the early hours of the morning in an alleyway.”

“Whoa. Shit,” Sister said, pushing back on her chair. “So he's dead? I mean, he was kind of an asshole, but… shit.”

“Furthermore,” Max continued. “Your brother, Dexter Grif, is currently our prime suspect.”

“Whaaat? No, Dex doesn't kill people,” Sister said dismissively. “He's, like, super fucking lazy. And how would he even find the guy?”

Simmons felt his face heat up, and hoped desperately that it didn't show.

“I never told him about Sam because Grif is, like, super protective,” Sister continued. “Like, when we were kids he chased another kid up a tree because we 'shared cooties' and it was super awkward and that boy wouldn't even talk to me after, and I'm pretty sure he was cute. I mean, I wouldn't call him cute nowadays because I'm not a pedophile, but you know what I mean.”

“Then how would you explain Grif's wallet finding its way to the crime scene?”

Internally, Simmons facepalmed.

“...Wait, what?” Sister asked.

“His wallet was at the crime scene. Now, that wouldn't be enough evidence on its own,” Max admitted. “Honestly, it's a little… too obvious. Could have been planted. But, given that when we went by Grif's workplace to interrogate him he fled the premises—“

This time, Simmons' facepalm was an external one. Meanwhile, Sister just stared at Gain.

“But… it's Dex. He doesn't kill people,” Sister repeated. “And not over something so stupid.”

“You are also making it sound like he might have had a motive,” Gain said.

“Fuck!”

“In any case, if you know where he might have gone… well, that information would certainly help,” Gain said.

He looked away for a moment to fiddle with his bag, putting the photo of Sam away. As he did, Sister looked at Simmons. Simmons caught her eye briefly before looking away like a startled rabbit. Sister's eyes immediately narrowed before she looked back.

“He likes oreos. He probably just heard there was a 50% off sale on oreos or something,” Sister said. “He'd flee the police for that.”

“...Somehow, I doubt that's all there is to it. But I have other questions...”

 

* * *

 

Grif was just driving in circles.

He'd panicked. He'd held his panic in so well when Simmons was flipping out, but the moment he'd stuck his head out of the bathroom of the fast food place he cleaned—after a hard morning's work of making mopping sounds with his mouth—and seen a cop talking to one of the other employees, he'd just… panicked. He'd run. He'd gotten in the car and sped off.

Now he was some miles from the city and driving in a long circle through the surrounding area. He wasn't sure where he was, if he was entirely honest. And he was starting to realise that he may have prematurely freaked out.

He didn't even know if the cop had wanted him. He'd just assumed. Maybe they were just asking questions, but why would they ask questions if they didn't already know? He'd texted Simmons and not gotten a reply, so that was freaking him out even more. Did they have Simmons? He couldn't very well flee without Simmons. Or leave Sister behind, for that matter.

What the fuck was he doing?

He knew his chances of getting caught, if they were really after him, increased the longer that he drove aimlessly in circles. What if they threw up blockades or shit? Would they do that for a dead drug dealer? Probably not. But what if?

He couldn't stay in the city, he just couldn't.

But he couldn't leave his family behind, neither Sister or Simmons.

Grif slowed down and parked in a little alleyway. He needed to think. What places were safe? Somewhere out of state? Out of the country? Run off to Spain or Mexico or some shit? But if he did that he'd leave Simmons to the cops. He'd leave Sister to end up in another ditch, having another overdose because of another asshole just like Sam.

In frustration, Grif thumped his head against the steering wheel. The resulting honking noise scared the hell out of a tiny old lady that was passing by.

What to do. What to do.

It was getting dark. And fleeing for so long and being so panicked was tiring him out. Maybe if he just… stayed here. He could figure out what to do in the morning. If they were looking for him, well, hopefully they wouldn't find him. He was going to crash if he didn't just sleep.

Grif didn't move much before nodding off. Just pushed back his car seat a little, wadded up his jacket as a pillow and rested it between him and the car window, falling asleep almost immediately.

 

* * *

 

Grif woke up to the title theme music from Battlestar Galactica, playing loudly from his phone. He stared blearily out the window for a moment, trying to remember why he was in his car and why his neck had the worst crick ever, before it clicked.

That was the song he'd set to play whenever Simmons called him. His hand shot out and grabbed the phone. He stared at it for a moment, as it continued to blare sci-fi music at him. What if the cops were calling him? What if Simmons was under duress or some shit? What if the cop was a rogue cop and was secretly torturing Simmons for his location?

Maybe that one was a bit far-fetched.

Fuck it.

Grif answered it. “Simmons?”

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?!” Simmons roared on the other end.

“Oh, god, did the cops come for you, too?”

“Yeah, but they're looking for you, dumbass! Why'd you run? Why the fuck did you run?”

“Look, I panicked, but nevermind that! Are you alright? Do they… do they know?”

As Grif spoke, he tossed the jacket he'd been using as a pillow into the backseat and started up the car. Now that he'd remembered why he was sleeping here he wanted to get a move on. Staying in one place was giving him the jitters.

“They know enough to make a really educated guess about your part in it.” There was a pause before Simmons said, “I don't think they think I was involved.”

“That's something, at least,” Grif muttered.

“Not really! You're still wearing a giant neon sign that says 'I'm guilty!' Gain questioned us for ages, and… yeah, he seems pretty set on you. Jesus, Grif, what were you thinking? And where are you?!”

“Uh...” Grif glanced around as he pulled onto the road. The streets were quiet. He didn't see another car on the road. “You know, I have no idea. I… I kinda just drove a few miles from the city and then started going in really big circles. This area looks kinda… towny? Suburb-ey?”

“You ran, and you didn't even run far away?”

“I blanked.”

Simmons paused for a moment, and Grif heard a voice in the background. When Simmons spoke again, he sounded nervous.

“Listen, Grif… Sister wants to talk to you. And… and she knows.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Look, I'm not great at concealing my emotions! And the detective questioned her as well. She guessed, alright?”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Fucking… fuck!”

“Yeah, I know, but she's gonna strangle me if I don't hand over the phone now and—don't just grab it, what—“

“DEX, YOU FUCKTARD!”

Grif winced and held the phone at arm's length, one hand still steering the car down the empty streets. He could still hear Sister screaming at him as clearly as if she was in the same room.

“Dex, how could you?! How could you?! Why would you do something so stupid?! How could you mess everything up just because you got pissy about a drug dealer? Seriously! You murdered a guy! Mur. Dered. Like, chasing a guy up a tree is one thing, but murder?! Fucking murder, Grif! Fucking murder!”

“I didn't know it was murder at the time!” Grif protested.

“Fucking murder! And why didn't you tell me?! Not cool! Just… so not cool! Now they're gonna arrest you and guys are gonna jump you in the prison showers and you won't be able to find protection in prison and you'll get pregnant and you'll have prison babies and I'll have to see my future nephews through cages!”

“What? Sis, I can't get pregnant! I don't have a damn vagina!” Grif yelled at the receiver. At the same time, he turned and steered into a back street. Empty. What time was it? It couldn't be that early, the sun was pretty high up… Grif sped along, driving as crazily as he always did. Wasn't like he was planning on stopping for cops.

“Nuh-uhh, I heard that there was this guy who made a baby with another guy. It was an experiment, I read about it on the internet. Anyway, that's not the point!”

“Look, I know I fucked up, I fucked up big time by dropping my wallet at the scene of the crime—“

“That's not the problem, Dex! Okay, it's a bit of the problem but… why?!” Sister sounded like she was on the verge of crying.

“Because he was an asshole who deserved it, alright?”

“Look, in the future, don't do me any fucking favours. I can handle myself! And I wouldn't have done it with murder!”

“Oh, yeah, how was that working out for you? You were in the damn hospital!”

“Low, Dex. Super. Low. Look, fuck, run off to Mexico! Or Spain or something! Where they can't get you! I'm pissed off but I don't want the cops to get you. And don't say anything until you've talked to a lawyer! Hey, gimme back the—”

Simmons' voice came through again. “You got any plans?”

“No.”

“Alright… alright.” Simmons paused for a moment, and Grif could just see him frowning in that thoughtful way he did whenever he was trying to come up with the solution to some coding, or an argument as to why his preferred superhero was better. “Listen, I might be able to contact some people. People, on, y'know...” Simmons lowered his voice. “On the underground or whatever they call it.”

“What, like, criminals?”

“Hey, we're not getting any help from the law here. Maybe someone that can give you enough false identification to, I don't know… get you hidden. Temporary solution, but enough until we figure out a better plan. Unless you want to come back and face it. Maybe we can still make a case against it. You'd probably seem more innocent if you just came back.”

“You think there's a chance of that?”

There was a long, awkward pause.

“You don't think there's a chance, do you?”

“They found your wallet with the guy, and you ran. Unless we come up with a damn good alibi for you having fled the cops then I don't know what else we can do.”

“Well, that's just fucking—OH SHIT!”

As Simmons had been explaining the chances of Grif's success, Grif had turned into another street. Still empty. He hadn't really been paying attention to the road. He'd been more focused on Simmons' words. Looking for some glimmer of hope.

He hadn't noticed the red light.

He didn't see the old pick-up truck driving across the street until it was too late.

Grif dropped the phone and tried to brake hard, at the same time hitting the horn as hard as possible like it would help. He was sliding forward, the car wasn't slowing, he was gonna hit it, he was gonna—

He didn't hit it. The pick-up truck swerved out of the way, missing him by inches. Grif felt a split second of relief, right before he skidded off the road and crashed into a nearby electrical pole.

The crash was a blur. Grif got thrown forwards, barely held back from plummeting through the windscreen by his seatbelt. The side of his head banged against something metal and his left arm got crushed between himself and the car door. Pain shot through his whole left side.

He heard a crashing noise behind him, and someone shouting his name.

Then it was quiet. Quiet. Dizzy. Foggy. Grif slowly sat back a little, feeling around in a daze. He felt the door handle. The door wouldn't open. Too crumbled. Numbly, he undid his seatbelt and started to crawl into the shotgun seat.

He realised what had been calling his name. The phone was still on. He could hear Simmons shouting frantically. He picked up the phone with his uninjured hand, leaning on the seat for support.

“Wha?”

“Grif?! What just happened?!”

“Fucking… fucking pole. Crash,” Grif mumbled. Still dizzy. But thoughts were catching up. Car was busted. That meant…

“Oh fuck… fuck… are you okay?!”

“...Not dead?”

Grif reached the other door. That one wasn't crumpled, and opened. He stumbled out onto the pavement, somehow still on his feet. Trying to bring his surroundings into focus, he saw the pick-up truck he'd narrowly missed. It had crashed into a tree.

He could hear Sister yelling in the background. “Dex?! You okay? You crashed? Come on, say something!”

“I… I'm okay...”

There was no movement in the pick-up truck. Grif started walking his way across the road towards it. All he could see was the outline of a huge guy, whose hair was slowly being soaked in a deep red. He saw that before tumbling onto the sidewalk on the other side of the road, half in the gutter.

He was too exhausted to get back up. Too tired to run. Too tired even to walk. That meant he was done.

Grif looked down at his phone. He could still hear Simmons and Sister both shouting things. He'd fucked up. He'd failed Sister. He'd hurt—killed—Sam to protect her and now it didn't even matter, because he was going to leave her all alone.

Except they didn't know about Simmons. She'd have Simmons. He held the phone to his ear.

“Simmons? You gotta do something for me,” he said quietly.

He could hear other voices from his surroundings. Someone in one of the surrounding houses must have heard the crash.

“Grif, don't talk like you're dying, do not do that,” Simmons snapped at him.

“No, man, I mean… they're gonna catch me. I can't go anywhere. So I'm...” Grif took a deep breath. It stung. “I'm gonna tell the police I did the murder on my own. It was all me.” Grif's eyes slipped shut for a moment, but he forced them open again. “No… no point in both of us going to jail, right?”

“Grif, don't be stupid—“

“I'm not. I'm doing the smartest thing I've ever done. Just… take care of Sister for me, okay? Don't care what you have to do. Even if you have to marry her or whatever, I mean, better you than anyone else. Least I know… I know you won't fuck it up. Look, just… take care of Sister. Please?”

“Grif!”

“God, I'm tired.”

Grif could hear footsteps pounding on the pavement, heading towards him.

“Grif, don't talk like that! Don't you dare—” Simmons shouted at him. That's all Grif heard before he turned off the call.

Someone touched Grif's shoulder. “Hey, man, you alright? Fuck, you look terrible, did you call an ambulance? Should I call an ambulance?”

Nearer to the pick-up truck, he heard someone else say, “Shit, you better call one just in case. This guy's bleeding real bad.”

Grif felt the stranger pry the phone out of his hand to call an ambulance. He didn't fight back. He just fell backwards onto the ground.

Man. He'd really fucked up. Those were his last thoughts before he fell unconscious.

 

* * *

 

 

**Tucker**

 

“Is walking really that hard?”

A year after Junior had been born, Tucker was watching him crawl across the floor happily. He'd spent the last fifteen minutes (a long time, as far as his attention span for teaching went) trying to get Junior to stay on his feet by himself. It hadn't worked.

“Well, I suppose this means longer before you're tall enough to start getting into weird places. Don't want you running around eating my keys or whatever,” Tucker told him.

Junior made a weird honking noise at him in response.

“Exactly.”

Tucker sat on the floor. Occasionally, Junior would crawl up to him for attention before moving off to explore the rest of the room. He was waiting until Crunchbite stopped by to pick Junior up for the week. After that, Tucker would be leaving to see C.T. She said she had some good cons lined up.

Tucker wasn't looking forward to it. He didn't really need the money right now. Of course, he couldn't tell C.T that, because the main reason he didn't need the money was because skimming off the top of cons hadn't stopped with that first job.

It had taken some months of being nervous about C.T or Pillman somehow knowing what he'd done. He'd worried each time that he saw them. But he'd played it cool, and no-one had ever called him out on what he'd done.

A couple of months after the con, he skimmed off the top of another one. Then another. Then another. Never much, but enough to put some away. Enough to pay some bills that had become a bit concerning. And the guilt didn't exactly go away, but it became easier to ignore.

Sure, maybe Tucker spent a little too long reasoning to himself about how he was doing the right thing, or that it at least wasn't all that bad. The money was stolen anyway. He was a struggling single father. He was just trying to provide for his son. That college fund wasn't going to pay for itself.

Tucker got up to pry Junior away from table, which he had currently started chewing on. Looking at how sharp his teeth were, it might be possible for him to take a bite out of it. If he was given a few more years, anyway.

“What's so great about the table? It's a table. It tastes terrible,” Tucker told him, bouncing Junior on his lap.

Junior continued to babble at him. Some of it had similar sounds and patterns to the language that Crunchbite and Smith spoke. Sangheili, was it? Maybe Tucker should actually learn it. Be awkward if his child got older and neither of them could understand each other.

He was brought out of those thoughts by Junior tugging on his hair.

“Ow.”

There was a knock on the door. Tucker carried Junior over and pulled open the door. Crunchbite was there, looking rather annoyed. He usually looked annoyed around Tucker. Perhaps irritated at the fact that the father of his child was a con artist. His manner was like that of a divorced parent. All the cons and none of the perks of a previous marriage.

“What took you so long? I gotta go see C.T.”

Crunchbite just stared at him, frowning.

“Okay, whatever.” Tucker handed Junior to him. The moment he did, Junior made an upset noise and reached back towards Tucker. “Don't worry, Junior. I'll pick you up during the weekend. Alright?” He gently touched Junior's blue tuft of hair, getting a little blarghing noise in response, before Crunchbite left. Taking Junior with him.

Tucker wandered back into his room to find his phone and let C.T know he was on his way. The apartment was small, but it always felt kind of empty once Junior was off with Crunchbite.

Well, he could fix emptiness. He just needed to stop by a bar and find a chick with low standards.

 

* * *

 

“Son of a bitch,” C.T muttered.

She was looking over a large pile of papers. Records of what they'd made in the last year. She hadn't noticed a shortage of money as they'd done the crimes, but now that she was looking at a full summary of everything she was starting to notice the big gap where more money should have been.

“What's happened?” Pillman entered the kitchen, walking past where C.T was sitting to wash his hands. They were covered in paint stains. Terrence could be heard pattering around in his room, painting on the walls.

“That job you did with Tucker… did you ever leave him alone with the money?”

“No. Fuck no. I don't even like him, I only trusted him to do the job because you put in a good word for him.”

“Any way he could have got to it?”

“I mean, I had to sleep?” Pillman finished washing his hands and sat down across from C.T. “Why? He stealing from us?”

C.T pushed a notepad towards him. “We're missing a pretty sizeable chunk of money. In small enough sums that I didn't notice at the time, but…” She pointed at the notepad. “Made a list of all the cons that didn't bring in as much as they should have. Almost all of them have one person in common. A few of them I could brush off as just mistakes but—“

“Is it enough money that the Chairman will notice it missing?”

“Do you even have to ask? He always knows. You know how he gets about money,” C.T said grimly. “We could drop a penny and he'd lecture us for it.”

Pillman read over her notes, scowling. After a moment, he dangled the notepad in front of her face. “Sizeable is right. How do you not notice thirty thousand bucks going missing?”

“It was over a year!”

“So what? We kill him?”

C.T frowned as Pillman dropped the notepad back in front of her. “I'd rather not, if we can help it. I kinda like the kid. Or did, at least.” She sighed. “Fuck, why'd he have to be so dumb? Besides, killing him won't get back our money.”

“If he just pays us back that's not a punishment. It means he gets a warning and learns to be sneaky,” Pillman said.

“So what, then? Go medieval on him and chop off a hand?” C.T asked dryly. When Pillman didn't immediately reply she hastily added, “I'm kidding.”

“Oh.”

“Just… don't take the axe out quite yet, we don't need another incident. I'll think of something.”

Pillman frowned at her before he felt a little tug on his shirt. He looked down to see Terrence staring up at him, covered in splatters of red paint.

“We're out of red paint. I can't make the scene accurate,” he said.

“Terrence, we talked about shark attacks.”

“I know, I know, stereotype. I looked it up on the internet and saw how many sharks die in human attacks. It sucks. So I thought they deserved vengeance. And flamethrowers.”

“...Flamethrowers.”

“Yes.”

“Underwater?”

“That's where sharks live,” Terrence said, giving Pillman a look like he was an idiot.

“You don't see a problem with that?”

“No.”

Pillman looked over at C.T, who shrugged and waved her hand as if to say 'let the kid have his creative freedom.'

“Right. Well, me and Connie are talking about important grown-up stuff. Can your paint wait?”

“...I guess I can let it dry a bit.”

“Cool.”

Pillman watched Terrence trot back to his room, catching the glimpse of an epic battle for shark rights on the walls, and looked down. The paint on Terrence's hands hadn't quite been dry. The smudges on the edge of his shirt looked almost bloody.

An idea clicked.

He turned back to C.T. “Sebiel.”

“What?”

“I know how we can make it up to the Chairman and punish Tucker at the same time. The answer is Sebiel.”

C.T pushed back on her seat for a minute, comprehension appearing on her face.

“Jesus, you really want to go down that road? Tucker stole a shitload, sure, but… is it worth that?”

“The money, maybe not. But Tucker betrayed your trust. I'd say that means he should pay a very high price.”

“It's not Tucker that'd be paying it, though,” C.T said, looking worried. She crossed her arms. “I don't like Sebiel. I don't like what goes on there. Hell, neither do you. Isn't that the whole reason you have Terrence?”

“If Sebiel had wanted Terrence there wouldn't have been anything I could do to stop it. He was looked at, but he's too hot-headed. Too rebellious. Rebellious kids don't do well there, but you raise a kid from scratch—“

“That's not the point and you know it.”

Pillman plopped down into the chair opposite of C.T. “Look, it's not that bad. Sebiel runs a fucked business, but… well, at least Junior'll get an education out of it. At least I'm not tossing the kid at the sex industry or something.”

“If the best rationalization you have is 'at least no child prostitution is happening' then that's not a great sign,” C.T grumbled.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“...Not really.”

 

* * *

 

Saturday rolled around, and Crunchbite didn't arrive at the usual time to drop off Junior.

That wouldn't have been worrying if it'd been someone else, but Crunchbite was super immaculate about time. Tucker thought it might have had something to do with being a scientist. Scientists probably had to be concerned about time and shit.

Tucker had tidied up—god forbid he get a lecture he couldn't understand about the state of his apartment—and made it look like he hadn't been living off fast food. (He could cook. But not well. Only the shit that came in packets, like mac 'n cheese.) Then he'd waited. And waited. And waited.

He called Crunchbite, and got no answer. The first time, he thought maybe that meant Crunchbite was on his way over. The second time, he was starting to get legitimately freaked out.

Just as he started thinking about going over there, his phone rang. Tucker picked it up before it had time to ring twice.

“Jesus Christ, what's taking you?” he asked.

“Tucker.”

“Oh. Sorry, C.T. Thought you were Crunchbite. Hey, you seen Crunchbite? He's friends with that guy you work with, right? Smith?”

There was a pause. “...No. Not personally. Pillman did.”

“Yeah? Well, when was—“

“Did you think we wouldn't find out?”

Tucker stared ahead for a moment, taking a little while to comprehend what she was talking about. But there was only one thing she could be talking about. She knew.

“Fuck.”

“That's an understatement.” C.T paused. “...I can't believe you. But perhaps that's my mistake. I thought you were alright, so I didn't pay enough attention.”

“Fuck,” Tucker repeated. “Look, C.T, I'm sorry. I was thinking about Junior's expenses and how they were going to get higher down the road, and—“

“Can it. I warned you when we first met, Tucker. Don't get on my bad side or I will ruin you.”

“It wasn't that much!”

“Thirty thousand bucks is a pretty hefty amount.”

“...Holy shit. It was that much?” Tucker hadn't even realised. He'd thought it was less. He certainly didn't have that much stored away, and he'd never been great at keeping track of his finances.

“And I've got a very angry boss who wants money. So this call is just to let you know that… I've picked up my payment, and now I consider us square.”

“Payment? But I didn't—“

“Crunchbite's late, isn't he?”

Tucker felt like someone had just thrown a bucket of ice over him.

“...No. No. No, you… you didn't. You wouldn't,” Tucker said desperately. And as he said those words, he heard Junior's very distinct burbling in the background.

“This… is not my area of business. So I'm handing over the phone now,” C.T said. There was a shuffling noise. This time, Pillman's voice came through. Unlike C.T, whose tone had been angry but rather subdued despite that, Pillman greeted him rather cheerily.

“Morning, dear. Did you want to say hi to the baby?”

“You take your fucking hands off my son!” Tucker snarled into the mouthpiece.

“Nah. I think he likes me. Maybe he's happy to see a good dad. One that doesn't land his kids in these sort of situation.”

“I'm not fucking around here, man, you better not do anything!”

“Relax, Tucker. I'm not killing your kid. Not as long as you stay smart. But if you'd stayed smart, you wouldn't be in this situation. I'm just here to tell you how this is going to go.”

There was silence for a good ten seconds. Like Pillman was pausing just to let him sweat. Tucker didn't move. He barely breathed.

“First off,” Pillman finally said. “Don't bother swinging by my house uninvited. No-one's there. But what's going to happen to Junior… well, he's going somewhere good. He's going to a new home. Going to live a good life and get a decent education. You just won't be seeing him again, that's all. Well, maybe if you play nice. Pay the money back and some extra, and spend some years working back our trust. Hmm. He'll be big by then, huh? Maybe taller than you. Not that that's hard.”

“Fuck, man, just… think about what you're doing! I'll pay you back, I'll pay you back double, just don't take my kid!”

“I've thought about it. I get to punish you—who, incidentally, I hate. I get a brand new asset for the boss, which'll keep him off my back for a while. And if you try to rat me and C.T out to the police, well, then I get to break in my new handgun. Way I see it, there's no downside. Not for me.”

“It's my son! You have a son, you should know what I mean!”

“Sure. That's how I know it'll sting that extra bit,” Pillman said smugly. “Besides, I take care of my kid. I don't go pissing off anyone that'll hurt him.”

“Yeah? You're doing a real good job of pissing me off,” Tucker snapped.

“Is that a threat?” As Pillman said that, there was the unmistakable noise of a handgun's safety being clicked off. When Tucker went silent, Pillman let out a snort. “Yeah. That's what I thought.

“You better go visit Crunchbite. I left him tied up. He knows the terms, too. Remember, I hear even a whisper of the cops coming after us and Junior's dead. Nice doing business with you, Tucker. Say good-bye to your deadbeat dad, Junior!”

There was a faint, cheery burble. Then a click as Pillman hung up.

Tucker stood there for a few minutes, staring straight ahead. First his mind was blank, but then it started running through all the contacts he knew. All the people Crunchbite knew. Anyone who he'd even heard a whisper of while working. He finally put down the phone and left to go over to Crunchbite's home.

There had to be someone who'd know where Junior was. If not… he'd find another way. But fuck if he was just going to let C.T… either C.T… take him. Fuck if he was just going to sit here and hope that one day, five years, ten, twenty years from now, they'd maybe let him see Junior once more.

Fuck that. No-one messes with his kid.

 

* * *

 

 

**Caboose**

 

“Out.”

“Oh, come on, man!”

Caboose wrinkled his nose. The man causing trouble smelt like alcohol and stripper glitter.

“You cannot get grabby. That is against the rules,” Caboose said sternly. He had a firm grip on the drunk guy's jacket and was steering him towards the door.

“Seriously? They're strippers, they can't expect to not get groped some—“

Caboose shoved him out the door before he could finish speaking. Some of the people that came to the club were really stupid, and thought that there was some kind of dress code that made grabbing okay. It was not okay, and Caboose didn't understand why they'd think that.

The man had been grabbing at Nice Blonde Lady (Caboose still couldn't remember her name—something sparkly), and now that she was gone she walked over. She patted him on the arm, smiling up at him.

“Thanks for that. Always lots of jerks on Saturday, even before the customers arrive.”

“You are getting glitter on my clothes,” Caboose said.

“Oh, sorry. You think I should tone it down?”

“It is very shiny. Shiny is nice,” Caboose said seriously.

“Right?”

“Hey! Get back to dancing, you're not paid to talk to security,” the boss snapped from nearby. Nice Blonde Lady immediately hurried back to doing her rounds around the room, which was currently fairly empty.

Caboose was trying to scrape the glitter off the shoulder of his clothes when he heard a familiar voice.

“Caboose, why are you here?”

Caboose looked up to see Sheila standing there, staring at him with a look of mild bemusement.

“...Sheeeeeeeilaaaaaaa!” Caboose practically tackled her, pulling her into a tight hug while babbling as fast as he could. “SheilaSheilaSheilaSheilaSheila! I was looking for you and I couldn't find you and I got really scared and then I got a job at this place but I don't like it much because there's no people with pants during pants time and—“

“Okay, okay, slow down,” Sheila said, patting him on the back. “It's okay, I'm not going to run away if you don't talk fast enough.”

“Okay. Sorry.” Caboose let go of her and took a step away, putting his hands behind his back. “Uh… I have not seen you not wearing a doctor's coat before.”

“Yes. It's a bit strange, isn't it?”

“No. You… you look pretty. You always… um… yes. Pretty.”

“That's kind of you.” Sheila's expression was very concerned. “Caboose, I got a call from your mother a few months back. She said you'd run away.”

“Yes. I was trying to find you.”

“You know she has my number, doesn't she?”

“But I tried to find you after I ran away. And then it is a very long story and I am not allowed to talk too much when working because I make the customers uncomfortable.”

“I'm not a customer.”

“Yes, but the grumpy man does not know that.”

“I can wait until you have a break.”

“Oh, uh… Mister Boss! When is it break time?” Caboose called across the room.

“It's your break when I say it is.”

“You never say when it is.”

The boss looked at him, then looked at Sheila. Sheila in turn was squinting slightly suspiciously at him. The boss looked at her, then looked back at Caboose.

“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

 

* * *

 

Over the course of most of that fifteen minutes, Caboose and Sheila sat down on a bench outside the strip club and Caboose tried to explain the last six months in exhaustive and often irrelevant detail. Sheila didn't say much. She just listened, though often putting in a comment or question here, enough to show that she was listening.

“—and there were boogeymen and lots of spiders. The boogeyman is still there, though, because he always runs away before I can get him. And yesterday, I tried ironing clothes because they do not like me showing up in wrinkly things and I burnt my hand,” he finished.

Sheila didn't say anything for a while. She looked like she was thinking. She was good at thinking. She studied him for a moment, then sighed.

“Caboose, normally if an eighteen-year-old ran away from his mother, well… it would not be my business. You are well within your rights as a legal adult. But… I don't know if you're ready to live on your own.”

“I am already living on my own,” Caboose said.

“Does that man ever give you breaks? How much are they paying you, Caboose?”

Caboose frowned as he tried to remember the number.

“Is it at least minimum wage, Caboose?”

“...I do not remember what that is.”

Sheila frowned before resting a hand on his arm. It wasn't uncomfortable, like when the nice stripper lady did it. “In any case… your mother has been out of her mind with worry. I think you should at least contact them and let them know you're okay.”

“Mama… was worried?”

“Of course she was.”

“She is not angry at me?”

“Not at all.”

Caboose started fiddling with his sleeve. “...I am happy about that. But I cannot go back. I was in the way.”

“Caboose—“

“Sheila,” Caboose interrupted, before she could say anything else. “You are a nice lady. So I think you are going to tell me I was not. But I was. And everything was… not right. Nothing has been right since I got hurt.”

Caboose started picking at the glitter that had now made its way to his fingers.

“...When I was small, Mama had this plate. It had flowers on it and it was pretty. Me and Bailey, we broke it and tried to glue it together again. It was almost the right shape, but the flower pattern was all jumbly and the cracks were still there.” He looked at the glitter for a moment longer. “...That is what the world is like. It is the same shape but it does not fit together right. Only it is not world that broke. Right?

“I know because everyone looks at me like… like… Mama and Papa and… they always look at me like they are looking for something else. Maybe looking for… not-broke me. And then it makes them sad. No-one here does that, because they did not know not-broke me. They just think I was always dumb.” Caboose's eyes flickered to Sheila for a moment. “You do not do that, Sheila. You are nice, and you do not give me the… the look.

“So I should… I should stay away. And Mama can have a new son. One with a good brain. And then she can forget about me and be happy again.”

Caboose looked down. His eyes felt very watery all of a sudden.

Sheila was quiet for a little bit, but the hand on his shoulder tightened a little. It was comforting. Eventually, she leaned forward a little more to look Caboose in the face better.

“I won't tell you that it's been easy for them, just as I wouldn't tell you that it's been easy for you,” Sheila said. “Families often have difficulty adjusting to changes brought on by traumatic head injuries. But hiding away from your family… that's not the answer, Caboose. Unless you're where you want to be?”

“...I miss them,” Caboose said quietly. “I do not like the sad looks… but I still miss Mama and… and everyone...”

“Your brain damage isn't your fault, Caboose. Sometimes you'll make mistakes. That's just a part of the healing process as you learn what you can and can't do any more, and figure out what you can relearn. But it isn't something you have to do on your own, and your family would say the same.”

Caboose didn't reply.

They sat there quietly for a little longer, before the door to the strip club opened and Nice Blonde Lady stuck her head out.

“Hey, the boss says your fifteen minutes are up. He sent me out here to tell you to stop talking to your girlfriend and get back to work.”

“I'm sorry, it was on doctor-related business,” Sheila said.

She rummaged through her pockets before retrieving a business card. Scribbling on it, she handed it to Caboose.

“Here, that's the number for my office. I've also written your mother's number on there. Your birthday's in two days, Caboose. I think it would be a good time to spend with family.”

Caboose looked at the scribbles for a moment—he couldn't read them, but he knew if he put it next to the phone and pushed the things that looked the same that he could call. He wiped his eyes before looking at Sheila, trying to put on a face that was… was not the one he had.

“You can… tell Mama that I am okay. If you want. But I… I cannot talk to her. Not until… not now.”

Sheila watched him for a moment before saying, “If that's what you want. I'll let you get back to work.” She patted him on the shoulder again. “Call me if anything comes up, Caboose. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Sheila nodded to him and left. Caboose looked at the card before putting it in his pocket. Nice Blonde Lady was still watching him curiously.

“Birthday, huh? You having a party?” she asked.

“...No. I did not know until now,” Caboose said.

“Seriously? How do you forget your birthday?”

“I forget a lot of things.”

 

* * *

 

“I'm taking off.”

“Now? I thought you had another shift,” the barman said. He glanced up at the blonde stripper and added, “Did you forget to remove your stage clothes?”

“I'm covered up enough for the streets,” she said, adjusting the jacket she was wearing so that the sequins of her top weren't showing. She glanced back where Caboose was guarding the door, frowning to himself, before lowering her voice. “That lady yesterday said Caboose's birthday was tomorrow, and he's not even getting a party. So I'm gonna sneak over there before his shift ends, wait until midnight and then… surprise!”

“...With dancing?” the barman said doubtfully.

“Yeah, I don't have time to knit a sweater or something. It's gotta be dancing.”

“I'm pretty sure he's gay.” The barman gestured at Caboose, who was engaging in his usual routine of looking anywhere but where the dancers were. “Anyone who works the door of a strip club and doesn't even take a peek on occasion—“

“Nah, he totally has a thing for that doctor. I think he just needs some privacy to get over his fear of boobs. Then he can get to wooing.”

The barman tapped his ring finger. “She was engaged.”

“So? Like half the people who visit here are married.”

“So you're just going to throw him into the deep end? As a birthday present? Worst idea ever.”

“Oh yeah? Twenty bucks says he has fun.”

“Fifty. Fifty says you traumatize him.”

“Shows what you know.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose was very sleepy when he got back to the little basement he lived in now. It was very late. He could not read clocks, but the bartender said that it was around eleven. It always took a while for him to walk home, even when he didn't get lost.

It was worse that day, because it was rainy. Everything was cold and wet. When he got home, the set of steps leading down to his basement were slippery. He almost slipped on them, but managed to regain his balance just in time.

His door was locked. His door was usually never locked, because Caboose sometimes forgot the keys or left them places and there was nothing inside to steal. Caboose wondered if he'd forgotten locking it.

He didn't have the keys on him, so he had to go upstairs to borrow the spare set from the old lady who rented the little basement out to him. She wasn't happy about it.

Caboose finally got inside, out of the rain, and spent the next fifteen minutes trying to open a can of beans without a can opener. After giving up, he found some bread. It was good bread, at least. And he had peanut butter. Peanut butter was also good.

Things were good. He definitely did not need help. Even if Sheila thought he would be better off back home.

Finished with the food and now exhausted, he changed into his jammies and clambered into bed. All ready to sleep. His eyes were closing when—

Thump.

Just a tiny thump, but enough. Caboose sat up, staring at the closet. The boogeyman. The boogeyman was back. Louder than before. Caboose reached for the knife he kept near the bed.

Thump. A quieter one. But then a slight, muffled noise. Almost like a whisper.

Caboose's fingers tightened around the knife handle. He quietly climbed off the bed, like he'd done before. The boogeyman always disappeared once he opened the closet and stuck the knife in there, but the boogeyman had never been so loud.

He inched towards the closet. Inch by inch. He thought, for a moment, he heard someone laugh. Was the boogeyman making fun of him? But he would not run. Because… because he was brave. He was brave and could survive on his own. Sheila would see that he was fine. Maybe so would his family. Maybe they'd be able to look at him without… without that look.

He grabbed the handle of his closet. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath and pulled it open.

“HAPPY BIR—“

The yell was cut off by the knife. Caboose had his eyes shut, but could feel the knife hit something. Could feel warm liquid spill onto his hands. He'd done it. He'd hit the boogeyman, and now it would go away and not scare him any more.

He opened his eyes. It was not the boogeyman.

Nice Blonde Lady stared back at him. Her eyes were wide. Mouth open. Fingers scrabbling at her stomach, where the knife was buried. Leaving streaks of red behind on her sparkly blue clothes.

“...You are the boogeyman?” Caboose asked.

The lady's mouth opened and shut a few times. She didn't seem to be able to make any noise. So Caboose thought, until she screamed. A loud, high-pitched scream which tapered off into coughing within a few seconds. It was enough time for Caboose to panic and clap a hand over her mouth.

“No! No yelling! You… you will make the landlady cranky! You… are you the boogeyman?! If you are not, I am really sorry, stop screaming, please—“

She was thrashing around. Her painted nails scratched at his hands and left shallow gouges behind.

“Please stop! Stop screaming! Be quiet!”

She kept clawing at his hands. Bits of screams kept slipping through his fingers when she jerked back. Covering her mouth didn't keep her quiet enough, and if she'd just be quiet for a moment he'd be able to explain—

Caboose wasn't thinking. His hands just automatically went for the throat. It cut off all the screaming. Cut off any noise except for a gurgling, choking sound.

“Please be quiet! Please be quiet! Quiet. Quiet,” Caboose kept whispering. “Quiet. Quiet. Quiet.”

He wasn't sure how long it went for. But eventually she did quiet down. But only when her face had gone a vivid, swollen purple. Her eyes were bulging and open. She did not look pretty anymore. She twitched on occasion. But she didn't scream.

“Why are you in my closet?” Caboose asked.

No answer.

“...Are you the boogeyman?”

No answer.

“Is that why you led me to this basement? So you would have people to eat?”

No answer. Her twitching was becoming less frequent.

Caboose looked down at his hands. They were soaked in blood.

It was like Apples.

Caboose stared at his hands, then at the lady, even as the twitching stopped. Even as the smell of copper and public bathrooms started to reach his nose. Back and forth. He didn't… panic, exactly. Not like with Apples. He didn't do anything. He just went numb.

After a long moment, he turned around and left his little basement. Up the stairs that led into it. Onto the rain-washed street. He looked down at his hands again. The rain made the blood on them run and drip off onto the path, where it joined with the rest of the water and flowed down into the gutters.

All the red flowed away, down the gutters, and Caboose continued to stand there. Not thinking. Just doing.

After a long time, he wandered back inside. His jammies were wet now, so he removed them and went to change clothes. But his clothes were in the closet, with the Nice Blonde Lady.

He stared at the woman's body for a long moment. Sitting there in the closet, purple and swollen in the face. Slowly, he reached out and closed the closet door.

Then he plodded back to bed, ignoring the smell wafting through the room.

 

* * *

 

 

**Donut**

 

One downside of moving out and to another state was that, somehow, Mama Liz was much more overly concerned about whether Donut was doing than she ever had been when he was living at home. Possibly because she mostly got updates through his Facebook.

“Of course I'm washing my clothes thoroughly, I'm not an animal,” Donut sighed into the phone as he tried pulling on his pants with one hand.

Maine was sitting on the couch nearby. Watching television, drinking and pointedly trying to block out the fact that Donut was only half-dressed by holding a hand up to block his own view. But Donut couldn't help that all his clean clothes were in the main room. At least this time Maine wasn't throwing shoes at him.

“How often a week? You go through clothes so fast, crumb.”

“As often as I need to. I did my own washing when I was at home! Do you just want me back home because the clothes I wash are always softest?”

“No, no, I just… you know how it is,” Mama Liz sighed on the other end. “It's in a mother's nature to worry and I didn't have you around long enough. Oh, that reminds me! I have to ask you some questions about that man you keep posting Facebook pictures of.”

“...You need to be more specific, Ma.”

“The big, bald one with the tattoo on the back of his head.”

“Oh, my roomie!” Donut said. As he said this, Maine looked around with a mildly alarmed expression. Donut waved at him, though he accidentally dropped his pants again to do so. “No, Maine, calm down, she's just asking questions.”

“That's your roommate? I assumed he'd be someone more your age,” Liz said worriedly. “You're not sleeping with him, are you?”

“Where'd that come from?”

“I'm just saying that an older man might seem like an exciting prospect, but he looked to be twice your age, crumbcake, and I don't think you're emotionally ready for that.”

“I'm not sleeping with Maine,” Donut sighed, ignoring Maine choking on his drink nearby.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I would have noticed.”

“Because you can tell me if you are. I won't get mad at you.”

“Did your parents ask you this about your roommates when you moved out?”

Liz snorted on the other side. “Please. I got the 'just girls being girls' assumption. They thought Julie was a friend until we got married.”

“Okay, fair enough. Maine!” Donut flopped onto the couch and held the phone up to Maine's face. “Tell my mom we're not banging.”

Maine rolled his eyes and tried to push the phone out of the way.

“Oh, she'll get the gist if you emote well.”

Maine gestured at Donut, and his continuing lack of pants, before getting up and leaving the room.

“What? I'm not saying you're not bangable, don't get offended! You're just old!” Donut called after him, before holding the phone back up to his ear. “I think I hurt his feelings.”

“And he's not being a bad influence on you?”

“Nah, mostly he just mopes around.”

“Okay, okay. It's just that city… I know I said I was okay with you moving so far away, and I am… but why'd it have to be that city specifically? It's so crime-infested. There's been like multiple serial killers in just the last few years. And don't get me started on all the other crime. You know, I think there was some case or another that was an inspiration for an episode of one of Julie's favourite courtroom dramas.”

“It's been alright for me so far. If I've seen any criminals I'm not aware of it.”

“Be careful anyway, okay? When are you visiting next?”

“I've got a long weekend coming up. How about then?”

“Sounds good. No offence to Ju-Ju, but everything's just so quiet with you gone.”

 

* * *

 

“Maine? Maaaaine?”

Donut let himself into Maine's room without knocking, which was becoming a regular event. Maine was lying on his bed, but this time he wasn't reading. He was just staring absently at the ceiling.

“Hey! You still upset?”

Maine rolled his eyes and growled back.

“...So yes? No? I'm sorry, I keep meaning to pick up those notepads, but I always forget. You could always go pick them up yourself. It might do you good, I don't think I've ever seen you leave the house. ...How do you pay rent?”

Maine grunted.

“Anyway, we cool?”

In an attempt to confirm whether they were or weren't cool, Donut put out his fist and waited to see if Maine would fist-bump him back. Maine looked over at him doubtfully, then at the hand. After a few moments, he reluctantly reached over and gave Donut a light fist-bump. Donut grinned, bouncing up and down on his feet.

“Cool. Hey, so I'm gonna hang out with my friends. It's looking to be an all-nighter.” Donut leaned forward conspiratorially and added, “I may know a guy who'll let me into this club as long as I promise not to get too drunk. Anyway, it's a dance club and it looks really fun. What's it called… Errera?”

Maine gave him a sharp, abrupt look.

“Oh, you've heard of it?”

Maine didn't respond, although he looked kind of sad all of a sudden.

“Not a good place?”

Maine shrugged.

“Anyway, well… you're always sitting here by yourself and I thought maybe you'd want to come with us? I'm sure the others wouldn't mind. I promise I won't ditch you, but… come on, some bright lights and loud music? Huh? You wanna come?”

Maine looked at him for a moment, then looked away. He shook his head.

“You sure?”

A nod.

“Okay, well… maybe call some friends while I'm out or something. Sometimes I worry about you. Being alone this much can't be good for you.”

Maine shifted uncomfortably before mumbling under his breath. Donut couldn't even try interpreting what he meant, although it sounded… defeated? No, that didn't seem right. Why would being invited out somewhere make anyone feel like that?

Donut gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You can call if you change your mind and I'll give you the address. If not, see you tomorrow.”

Maine nodded before returning to staring at the ceiling.


	22. Chapter Sixteen: The Calm Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people talk to a lot of other people.

“I'm pretty sure I should be giving you anesthetic.”

Sheila shook her head. “It's not too bad. Anesthetic will cloud my mind and stop me from getting back to work.”

“You just got stabbed,” Wash said flatly.

“I was barely skimmed,” Sheila said dismissively. “Where's Lopez?”

“He was getting overexcited, so I locked him out of the room.”

As if on cue, there was a hammering sound at the door, followed by a tirade of angry Spanish.

“You're not helping me concentrate!” Wash yelled back, before turning back to the gash in Sheila's side. “Have you ever been stabbed before? You're taking this really well.”

“Once. I've worked with some unstable patients. One got hold of a plastic fork.”

“Plastic fork?”

“Yes. At least metal doesn't snap off so easily.”

Wash grimaced. “I suppose that's one way of looking at it.” As he started to stitch the wound he felt Sheila tense up under his hands. “I can still use anesthetic. I think getting stabbed is decent grounds for taking the day off.”

“If I leave there's no doctor.”

“So? They're just inmates.”

Sheila frowned at him. “One of those inmates is my husband. Another is a former patient. And regardless of what anyone here has done, they still have a right to health care.”

“I can't decide whether you're being brave or stupid,” Wash muttered. He went quiet for a little while, focusing on his stitches, before asking, “Did the zealot say something about sacrifice?”

“Yes. This isn't the first time, I take it?”

“Happened to the last doctor. He wasn't as lucky as you were. Since Doc left there's been an attack on someone each week on the same day. It's like clockwork.” Wash's frown got deeper. “...Might have to call him.”

“What?”

“Sorry. Thinking out loud. Will you be alright on your own once I've done this?”

 

* * *

 

"Okay, seriously. Where the fuck is he?" Grif wheezed. He walked across the yard, Donut clinging to his back and looking around. They were getting a lot of strange looks from the other inmates wandering around. "I gotta rest."

"But you rested not long ago!" Donut whined.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm really unhealthy!"

"I have noticed! How do you stay that pudgy when all we get to eat is the bare minimum of nutrition?"

"I spend all the money I earn from laundry on either pruno ingredients or junk food."

"I don't care! No rests!"

"Donut! We've looked everywhere! He's probably moving around like we are. Dumbass probably got lost."

"But I need to find him!" Donut protested, as Grif dropped him on a bench.

"Yeah, well... technically, you can walk. Find him yourself."

"But I promised to wash your underwear!"

"I don't care, if I wanted to exhaust myself I would go back to playing Sarge's stupid 'red vs blue' sports games," Grif complained. Donut looked up from where he'd been scowling at the concrete floor, as if it was to blame for Grif's tiredness.

"Wait. We haven't checked there."

"Checked where?"

"You know, that little dirt square where Sarge would make us play sports." That hadn't happened in a while. Those games usually involved nothing but Grif lazing around and refusing to play, either Church or Tucker being accidentally hurt by Caboose, who usually insisted that Tucker did it, and arguments between Sarge and Flowers about them favoring each other's teams. Plus, there were so many injuries lately that there was never enough players from their row of cells.

"Why the hell would he be there?"

"Well, if he's hiding... I mean, no-one goes there. There's nothing but dirt. It's dirty."

"No shit. Fine. Hurry up."

"You hurry up, you're the one giving the piggyback. Mush, Grif! Mush!"

"No amount of clean underwear is worth this," Grif muttered, as he returned to ferrying Donut around the prison.

When they arrived at the little square of dirt used to play sports, they found Caboose sitting in the dirt and tracing patterns. Or maybe they were pictures. It was impossible to tell, they were so squiggly. Grif immediately dropped Donut again, although he was at least nice enough to make sure Donut didn't fall over.

"Great. You've found him. My work is done. I'm leaving before it gets awkward," Grif said, before running away as quick as his laziness would allow.

Caboose had noticed Grif talking and looked up. He stared at Donut with the same expression as a deer caught in headlights. Donut took a step forward.

"Caboose…"

Caboose jumped to his feet and started running away.

"Caboose! I know you're not going to make an injured person run!" Donut yelled. Caboose slowed, and then came to a halt before turning around. Donut tried to move forward again and wobbled. "And I know you're not gonna make an injured person walk this distance between us." He motioned for Caboose to come back. Caboose fidgeted a bit before doing so.

"Why are you still following me?" Caboose muttered.

"I was worried! You're... you're acting weird! Just... just sit down and we're talk. No, wait, don't sit down, it's dirty here. Ah, nuts to it, sit down. You've already got dirt all over your butt. I'm going to have to wash your pants again."

Caboose sat down again. Donut did as well, against his better pant-related judgement.

"Why'd you run away?"

"...You were scared. You got that face when I told you about Mama. The 'there is a special level of Hell for you' face. I have seen it before. Although last time they... they said the words."

"Did I look that revolted?" Donut asked. "I didn't think that. I mean... yeah, it was bad, but…"

"Everyone gets that face when the... the thing with Mama comes up. Even Papa... especially Papa." Caboose started tracing in the dirt again, tracing what looked like an egg with a beard.

"Your dad?"

"No. Yes. Papa is... he is my stepdad. Dad was my dad-dad. Papa was my favourite papa, though. I do not like Dad." Caboose wrinkled his nose. "He was a lot like Tucker. He smelt the same and was always talking about ladies that he had done the sex with."

"Gross."

"Mm. Papa was more like a cool lumberjack. He used to let me carry wood." Caboose stared down at the ground, at the scribbly drawings. "You do not have to lie to me anymore. You do not have to pretend to like me. It is okay. I will stay out of the way." He was tracing something else in the dirt now. Something that might have been a cowboy.

"Aw, Caboose. Look." Donut sighed, trying to figure out his words. "I'm going to be completely honest with you. Alright? What you did to your mother... yes. That was horrible. Worse than horrible. I mean, murder is bad enough. Murdering your mother? That's... that's... see, I don't even have the words for how bad that is." Donut saw that Caboose looked on the edge of tears again, and raised his hands. "Don't cry... Please? I'm sorry, I was trying to be honest...”

"I know... but..." Caboose covered his face. "Are you done? Can I hide now?"

"No. What I was leading up to was... it was a horrible thing. But despite that... I'm still your friend. I'm freaked out by what you did, completely and totally freaked out, but I'm still staying. Because that's what friends do, right? They stick by each other. Maybe it helps, maybe it doesn't… but whatever else I might have lied about... the part about being your friend? I didn't lie about that."

Caboose didn't uncover his face. "So, you are not mad? You forgive me?"

“I'm not mad.” Donut paused for a moment on the second question. “...And I don't think it matters if I forgive you or not. I think you should just forget about other people forgiving you, and try to forgive yourself first.”

"It is hard."

"God, I know. Believe me, I know that from experience."

“You are innocent, though,” Caboose said. “You said self-defence.”

“I did. And it was. But at the end of the day that doesn't matter much to Maine, does it?” Donut scraped his boot on the ground. “And it's so easy to lapse into 'what if?' What if I'd just stopped stabbing him? What if I'd thought to stifle the bleeding? What if I'd done this or that? But I can't spend all my time dwelling on it, or I'd drive myself crazy. You know what I mean?”

“I do not know. ...I think so?”

“Well… that's something. Hey, can you help me up?"

Caboose nodded and climbed to his feet, pulling Donut up with him.

"It's kind of chilly out here. Want to go back to the cells? I'm probably going to need some help getting back there, though. Can I get a piggyback ride?"

"Okay."

"Cool. And when we get back, I think you need to change your pants. They're covered in dirt."

As Caboose let Donut clamber onto his back he said, "Bavarian Cream?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For… for not yelling and… things."

"Don't worry about it.”

 

* * *

 

" _I'll kill him._ "

" _Lopez, please don't kill anyone,_ " Sheila sighed. " _Not again._ "

" _They can't be allowed to get away with this,_ " Lopez growled. " _And I know O'Malley put them up to this. That... that fucked up... I thought he might try to blackmail me into cooperating like this, but he didn't even bring you up... he's just doing this for shits and giggles._ "

" _You have no proof he was involved._ "

" _But he was._ " Lopez had dragged a seat over so he could sit next to Sheila. He was gripping her hand tightly, like his life depended on it. Or like hers did. The other hand was absently stroking her hair.

Sheila gazed at the ceiling. Her free hand was occasionally brushing the bandaged area in her side. " _I never realised how much these sorts of injuries hurt. I should know these things. Perhaps the personal experience with these sorts of attacks isn't a bad thing. I'll know how to deal with them next time it happens here._ "

" _But you won't have to deal with it next time. There won't be a next time,_ " Lopez insisted.

" _Don't be silly, Lopez. There will probably be a next time. You said yourself that attacks are common._ "

" _But... you have to leave._ "

" _I'm not leaving._ "

" _Sheila, don't you understand how serious this is? You almost died!_ "

" _You're making a fuss._ "

" _No, you're right, stab wounds are no big deal. They're on the same level as breaking a nail,_ " Lopez sighed. " _Is this prison infecting you with stupidity?_ "

" _Lopez... I know how serious this is. And that's precisely why I can't leave. What happens if there's no doctor here? What if you're attacked next and there's no-one around to help? I'm not going to let that happen._ "

" _What will it take you to stop?_ "

" _You being freed._ "

" _That'll be twenty years at the least. And you almost died in your first week. You'll never make it._ "

" _Yes, I will. You need me here,_ " Sheila said firmly.

" _And I need you to stay alive._ "

Minutes passed in silence. Lopez kept stroking Sheila's hair absently. He was the first to break the silence.

" _We need a divorce._ "

" _No, we don't._ "

" _Yes. Yes, we do._ " Lopez wasn't looking at Sheila, even though he still continued to stroke her hair. " _We need it._ "

" _I will assume this is your method of getting me to stay away. If it's not, and it's just coincidence that you brought it up while I'm bleeding from a stab wound, then you could have chosen a better time,_ " Sheila said calmly. " _Do you honestly want to divorce me?_ "

" _Of course I don't. But..._ " Lopez removed his hand from her hair, clasped her hand with both of his. " _It's not just about protecting you. Although... that is a very big part of it. But I'm going to be locked up here for too long, Sheila. You... you need someone who can actually provide for you. Who can be there for you. And by the time I'm able to leave, you'll be... well, old._ "

" _So will you,_ " Sheila pointed out.

" _It's not that. I mean, what if you wanted kids? By the time I get out, you'll be too old and it won't be an option. I think it's better if I'm not dragging you down._ ”

There was a moment's pause, before Sheila said, " _Can you move a little closer, please?_ "

Lopez did so, leaning in a bit further. Then Sheila reached up and gently slapped the back of his head.

" _Ow?_ "

" _That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard,_ " Sheila said. " _You're here for me right now. Or is it an identical stranger sitting here holding my hand?_ "

" _Yes. It's an identical stranger. I'm not actually Lopez, I'm his long-lost twin brother Leroy,_ " Lopez groaned. " _Sheila, I'm dragging you down. I'm as much a prison for you as these walls are for me._ "

" _There's a key difference, Lopez. Unlike you, I'm choosing to stay in my 'prison.' You can divorce me if that's really what you want. But I'm keeping this job regardless. I'm staying here for you. Whether you want it or not._ " Sheila laughed lightly. " _Besides. I knew there was going to be no kids when I married you. You hate kids._ "

" _I do. They're noisy and sticky,_ " Lopez muttered.

" _I know, dear. I know._ ”

 

* * *

 

Wyoming certainly supported O'Malley and his amusing schemes, especially when those schemes involved potential escape. But his obsession with Doc was, quite frankly, becoming irritating. Not to mention potentially spoiling the escape plans. The attacks on whoever was in the infirmary were doing little but drawing attention and suspicion. And the only reason O'Malley insisted on this was that he was still convinced that piling enough guilt on Doc would make him come back.

Wyoming, for one, didn't want Doc to return. At least not until after the escape. There was a good chance O'Malley would decide that an escape wasn't necessary if he returned, and Wyoming was relying on those crazy flag-worshippers for manpower. O'Malley losing interest in their plan just wouldn't do.

Perhaps the obsession with Doc did serve its purpose. But really, the stalkerish phone calls were a bit much. Especially when O'Malley had to send other people to do it for him. People like Wyoming, for example.

Wyoming dialed the number that he'd found in O'Malley's cell. He glanced around casually to make sure no guards were standing too close to the phones. They weren't. Excellent.

It didn't take long to pick up.

"Yes?" Doc sounded nervous. No surprise, after all the other phone calls. He'd probably been expecting it by now.

"DuFresne! My good chum, it's been so long. How have you been?" Wyoming said, forcing the cheery friendliness into his voice. He didn't want Doc to be afraid of him. He wanted the man to listen.

"Wyoming? O'Malley told you to call, didn't he?" There was a long sigh on the other end of the phone. "Who did he attack this time?"

"Another doctor. Good news, Doc. This one lived." Wyoming heard another sigh. This one sounded more relieved. "But he's still angry. And he's still insisting that you return to the prison. The obsession is getting rather unhealthy, really. I would go into more detail about his threats and demands, but I suspect you don't want to hear them."

"No, thank you." There was a long pause. Wyoming was starting to suspect Doc had hung up when he spoke again. "He's not going to stop, is he?"

"Would you like my advice, DuFresne?"

"I... well... I guess it couldn't hurt…"

"Well." Wyoming rested his arm on the phone box, glancing around again. "What O'Malley wants me to do is agree. Give you my most convincing talk about how you'll never, ever escape from him, and how he'll always keep hunting you down. Blah blah blah. You've heard it before, I suspect."

"Yeah, he... he said stuff like that before, even when I was still there..." Wyoming heard him gulp quietly. He was probably at least nervous by this point, if not completely terrified.

"Mm, yes. Well, that's what he wants me to tell you. But I'm not going to just repeat that angry drivel. Instead, I'm going to inform you of the truth."

"The truth?"

"In my many, many years both guarding and living in prisons, I've come across O'Malley's type before. The ones that don't particularly care about anything except their own amusement. Now, they may vary in some ways, but there is one thing you can be sure of. They get bored very easily."

"I did notice that. He was really easy to distract, sometimes," Doc said. "Though that was more medication-based... then he'd get distracted by his own hands. And there was a stretch of time when I'd just bring in a kaleidoscope to play with, and he'd leave me alone. For a little while, anyway."

"Yes, I think the kaleidoscope business is more due to the medication than what I'm talking about. My point is that the man has the attention span of a goldfish. It's a miracle he's stayed interested in tormenting you for so long. He lost interest in the others. Either they break, and he gets bored, or they prove too resistant, and he still gets bored. Give it time, and the same will happen for you. He'll lose interest. That's what people like him do. If it's not fun they move on."

Wyoming was more unsure of this than he acted. While most of what he said was very true, O'Malley's fascination with tormenting Doc was unusually strong. It'd kept him amused for at least the last five years, and that was a miracle in itself. Maybe this was different. But then again, maybe it was just the same as all the other times.

"But he keeps saying he'll find me," Doc said quietly. "You think he'd get bored before then?"

“Of course,” Wyoming lied. “Honestly, how would he find you? Those walls are there for a reason, chap."

"Yeah, I... I guess."

"Believe me, you're perfectly safe where you are. And don't fret about the attacks happening here. They'll stop once he finds a new 'subject.' In any case, I think he's doing less damage than you were during your stint as 'doctor.'"

"...Yeah. I know."

"Now, if O'Malley calls you again and asks, then I gave you my most convincing lecture on why you should come back. Is that clear?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

"Also, just a recommendation... but I really would consider changing your phone number. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't already."

"I... well, that's sort of rude, and if someone wanted to contact me…"

"Does anyone who isn't a bloodthirsty inmate ever call you?"

"Well, no."

"Hm. Depressing. Perhaps you should join one of those clubs that get together, drink tea and have chats about the curtains. It seems more healthy than waiting for phone calls from serial killers."

"I wasn't waiting for—"

"Well, this was a lovely chat, DuFresne. Farewell." Wyoming hung up without waiting for the response. Hopefully that little talk would stop any chance of Doc getting ideas about coming back, at least until the breakout. And perhaps it would have the added effect of getting him into those tea gatherings. Always a good thing.

As Wyoming walked away from the phone boxes, he saw Washington walking towards him, heading for the phones himself. He nodded and smiled smugly.

"Good day, Washington. Lovely day. Much better than the night, I'm sure."

"Shut up."

Wyoming merely smiled wider and kept walking.

 

* * *

 

Washington didn't want to do this. He was just not one for trying to talk to people. Especially people that annoyed him. Washington had a long list of people that annoyed him, and Doc was… well, somewhere around the middle, but still too high for comfort.

But all these doctors being attacked... that was too far. Inmates getting hurt or killed was one thing. In fact, that was probably doing society a big favour. But this…

Wash wasn't even completely sure Doc was actually involved. But this all started when Doc left, and Doc had turned up after Henderson. He clearly knew something was happening. Maybe he was the only one who could stop it, whatever it was.

There was simply no way Washington could stop it on his own.

Now, if O'Malley had been the only attacker… well, that presented its own issues. Wyoming would figure out what had happened if O'Malley suddenly died in his little infirmary room. And even if the guards didn't believe him, or neglected to try and press charges, then Wyoming might see this as reason enough to spill Wash's past to York. Wash didn't want that. Too many questions about him, about Carolina…

O'Malley was also his only chance at finding the others. There was no-one else who could tell him where Delta, Theta, Epsilon and Alpha were. Or who they were. He'd suspected that maybe Donut was one of them at first. But Donut was only twenty. Too young to be one of them, even Epsilon.

Even aside from that, there were the Zealots to consider. Whether they were working with O'Malley or just acting out on their own, possibly inspired by O'Malley's weird brand of violence, the issue was that there was a lot of them. Too many to quietly 'remove.'

Washington picked up the phone and dialed Doc's number. He'd had to go through Sarge's files to get it. Probably illegal, but Sarge hadn't seemed to care as long as he burned the file of 'that dirty Blue sympathizer' afterwards.

The phone picked up.

"Look, I'll change my number, alright? You don't have to call and check, I can't do it in two minutes!" Doc whined. "I have to get back to work, I've been on break for too—"

"Doc?”

"Wait, Washington? Oh. Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else. Just a minute!" he heard Doc call at someone else, before Doc said, "Uh, you caught me at a bad time. The boss wants me to get back to work."

"You actually found another job? I'm stunned. Who would hire you? Actually, I don't care. Listen, Doc. You know what is happening here, don't you?"

"Um. No?"

"Yes, you do. You showed up in the parking lot the day Walter got disemboweled. And I trust your bullshit about 'just having a feeling something bad was going to happen' as much as I would trust South about... well, anything."

"I didn't know! Not exactly…"

"Doc, I don't know why everyone has been acting up so much since you left. Honestly, I don't care."

"No."

"No, what?"

"I know where this is going. And the answer is... is no," Doc said quietly.

"Look, whatever the reason for this, fact is that it's still connected to you. I don't know why that is. Maybe you're smuggling supplies in or something. Maybe you're some bizarre messiah for that cult that worships the red flag. Maybe it's all an excuse. But whatever it is, I'll take it over constant murder any day."

"I... I don't do that. And I said no. I can't."

"You can. You just won't. People are dying because of this, Doc."

"More people were dying when I was there!"

"Correction, Doc. Inmates were dying. And they barely count as people. What's happening isn't just restricted to inmates any more. You think I'd be going to you for help if it was?"

"That's really harsh. And offensive. Inmates are people."

"Barely."

"It doesn't matter. I can't come back. Sarge fired me. You helped me get him to do that, remember?"

"I can talk him around, if necessary. It probably wouldn't take that much. I'd probably just have to say that you decided to defect to the Reds or something equally ridiculous. And I don't care what job you get here, whether it's medical or something else. Just find a job here and fix it."

"I can't. I'm not... I don't want to go back to that! You don't know... don't know what he's like!"

“Then get some mace and a nightstick.”

“That's violent!”

“Don't care.” Wash paused for a moment, but Doc didn't say anything else. “I don't care what's going on. I just know that it started when you left, and the longer you stay away… the longer it goes, the more people die.”

There was a long pause before Doc said, "I have to get back to work."

"Yes, you do. But you need to get to work here, not wherever you are. But I've made my point. Just know that whatever happens before you come back? It's on you.”

 

* * *

 

"Eat."

"I am not hungry."

"I said eat! Or I swear to God, Caboose, I will tickle you until you have to open your mouth from laughter. And then I will cram it down your throat. Just eat!"

Donut's patience may have been wearing a little thin by that point. He wasn't exactly angry, he was just getting worried and annoyed at the fact that Caboose wasn't really eating. He was just pushing the food on his plate back and forth.

"Hey, if you're not going to eat it then can I have it?" Grif asked.

"Ye—" Caboose started.

"No! He's eating it!"

"Don't have to yell, Donut. Jeez."

Donut pulled a face before going back to eating. Despite the fact that, for the first time in a while, no-one was missing from the table, it was still awkward. Church and Tucker were both there, but they were just flat-out ignoring each other. They'd refused to give up their usual seats, but had turned them so they were practically sitting back to back. It was almost comical. And maybe Grif and Simmons had just run low on conversation topics or something, but they were quiet as well. It was weird.

As Donut ate, he spotted Lopez nearby. Sitting by himself and also doing little more than pushing his food around on his plate.

"Oh right, Sheila," Donut muttered.

"Sheila? What about Sheila? Eclair? What happened to Sheila?" Caboose asked.

"Uhhh... give me a moment. I'll be back." Donut climbed to his feet and passed a couple of tables on his way to Lopez.

As he did, he noticed the zealots were sitting not too far away. The one that'd killed Henderson was not talking as animately as usual, instead sitting there silently and frowning while the others chattered around him. The Red Zealot saw him staring, and nodded his head a little in a bizarrely respectful manner. Donut immediately looked away.

Donut reached Lopez and tapped him on the shoulder. "Lopez?"

Lopez took a moment to react, and even then he didn't turn around. " _Did you want something?_ "

"How's Sheila? Is she okay?"

" _She will heal. She ignored common sense and returned back to work immediately._ ”

"Oh. Well, at least she's not badly injured?"

" _That is a matter of opinion._ "

Donut sat down next to him, trying to lean forward and see his face. "Are you gonna try and kill me?"

" _Why would I kill you?_ ”

"You said something about if Sheila got hurt or was threatened or whatever, then you'd kill me. Is that not true or…"

" _I said if O'Malley gave me a choice between Sheila getting killed or you getting killed, then I would kill you myself to protect her. But he did not give me that choice._ " Lopez took a sip of apple juice before continuing. " _He sent those zealots to kill Henderson and most likely sent them to kill Sheila, as well. But he didn't do it because of anything I did. Killing you wouldn't solve anything because it has nothing to do with you or me. He's just killing off doctors. Who knows why._ "

Donut stared off for a moment, recalling O'Malley looming over him with that drug-induced grin, pinning his arms and mumbling incoherently. He pushed away the memory of O'Malley kissing him, and of that chunk of tongue floating around in that mouthful of blood, and remembered one of the few distinguishable words he'd said.

“Doc,” Donut muttered to himself.

“ _Yes. Doctors. That's what I said,_ ” Lopez grumbled.

“No. I mean… I think it might have... something... to do with Doc leaving.”

" _It doesn't matter what the reason is. Next time I see O'Malley, I am going to break his neck,_ " Lopez growled. " _Same for that zealot who stabbed her. No-one. Hurts. Sheila._ " He looked at Donut. " _Is that what you came here for?_ "

"Yeah, I just wanted to ask about her."

" _Then leave me alone._ "

Donut moved back to his table and sat down next to Caboose.

“Why were you asking about Sheila?” Caboose said worriedly.

Donut looked at Caboose for a moment, thinking. If Sheila was going to be alright…

“She's just feeling under the weather. She'll be okay.”

Caboose frowned, squinting slightly at Donut. He looked over at Lopez, while still pushing his food around on his plate.

“I told you to eat, Caboose,” Donut told him.

"I am eating. Half the plate is empty," Caboose said.

"Caboose, pushing all the food to one side doesn't count. Now, eat. If you do, I'll do... um... something nice?"

"Stories?"

"What?"

"Will you read stories? You did not ever finish 'The Awesome Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times' because we had a bad fight."

"Yeah. I just made it up, remember?"

"Then you can make up an ending." Caboose rocked back and forth on his chair. "All stories are made up. And I like your one the best."

“...Alright. Eat all your food and I'll tell you some more before bedtime."

"Okay.”

 

* * *

 

“Prophet? Prophet? Are you there?”

The Red Zealot stared at the door. He knew, from Wyoming, that the Prophet was on the other side of this door. But he needed to hear him. Or see him. Or… something that could reaffirm his faith.

It was weak to feel like this. But lately, everything had felt drained of colour. The flag was not as vivid. Nor was anything else. It was as if someone had bleached the world of what made it beautiful, and the Zealot couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps, the Flag was mad at him.

He had always assumed that the wrath of the Flag would be more… powerful. But he'd underestimated how horrible the simple dulling of colours could be. Beholding the appearance of the gods but not being able to see.

“Prophet?”

The Red Zealot fiddled with the piece of red cloth he always wore around his neck. To wear something like the Flag, but without the sacrilege of defiling the Flag itself.

“I do not doubt you. I do not doubt our mission. But… I wonder if we… misinterpreted?”

It wasn't just the Zealot that was being frowned on. The others had not been seeing colour as powerfully, either. A couple of them had expressed doubts, and the Red Zealot had tried to tell them that there was nothing to doubt over. But why was it happening to them, and why now?

“Did we do wrong killing the doctor? Or not killing the one who remains? Does her mere presence blight colour? What am I doing wrong? Why is everything so faded? Why is the Flag angry?”

No response.

The Prophet would answer him, wouldn't he? Unless he was a charlatan. But no, the Zealot chided himself for even thinking such a thing. He bore the Holy Colour. He could not be fake. Nothing was an accident, not by the Flag.

So then what?

“Is it a test, O' Prophet?”

Maybe this was to make sure that the Red Zealot didn't serve the Flag just because it made the world bright. Just because it gleamed and flapped in the wind. Maybe it so the Flag could know if the Zealot would follow even if all was taken.

That was it, wasn't it? A lesson and a gift wrapped in a seeming misfortune. Like the crime that had led the Zealot to this grey land. And to the Flag.

The Red Zealot pressed a hand against the door, as if somehow that would allow him to touch what was beyond. To twist his fingers in the symbol of faith and know that the Holy Colour was there, even if he couldn't see it.

“I will not fail you. If I fail you, and we are trapped in this purgatory, then may I fall on my blade and die at your command. But that will not happen, because I will not fail. I will not fail the Flag!”

The Red Zealot ran off, babbling his usual fanatic phrases and trying to squash whatever doubt lingered.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, O'Malley rolled his eyes. How'd the idiot think he was going to tell him anything? Through telepathy? He didn't even bring a pencil with him. Idiot.

 

* * *

 

Sarge was cleaning out his desk. He hadn't bothered to do this since he first got the job as warden. His desk was crammed with a large assortment of crap that had no practical use in a prison.

He found a pile of wires and chips that were from a killer robot he'd tried to make at home. He'd hid the pieces at work after the robot had sliced its way through most of the walls and the broom his wife had been hitting it with. There was also a pile of dog biscuits, cobra biscuits (which it turns out was actually a box of animal crackers with 'cobra biscuits' written across the front with pen) and other mementos from the many more manly pets that he'd tried to get his son. He wasn't sure why he'd stacked the pet food in his desk. Perhaps as emergency rations if he ever got locked in his office.

Flowers strolled in while Sarge had his arm elbow-deep in one of the drawers.

"This desk is huge!" Sarge said, sticking his arm in further. "I could fit a whole zombie survival kit in here! I do need to stash one of those at work. It's a horrible danger to be stuck here without one, especially since this prison will be a delicious meal for the undead! All those criminal masterminds walking about…"

"How many zombie plans do you have?"

"Thirty-seven! I suppose you don't even have one, you girly-haired hippy.”

“I'm not as prepared as you. I only have two or three."

"Slacker."

"Well, it's difficult to make plans that encompass the men as well as myself."

"Don't be stupid, you dandelion! It's easy! Use the men as a distraction. While they're being eaten alive, run for your life! Preferably make sure that Grif is right out front when the zombie horde hits."

"You're not a team player, Sarge."

"I'm very much a team player! The team is nothing without it's leader! Or with a zombie leader!" Sarge kept rifling around in the desk, and pulled out a bottle of perfume. "Ah. That's where the anniversary gift went."

Flowers took his usual seat on top of the desk. "Lovely. For which anniversary was that?"

"Six years ago."

"Oh dear." Flowers looked over the contents of the desk, which were now scattered all over the floor. "Do you really think that Vic is going to look through your desk?"

"Never know. Have to be prepared for whatever the enemy... or Vic... throws at us! Things are rocky enough with all these attacks on the doctors! And I don't want to lose this job. What other job can I take that lets me throw footballs at criminal dirtbags?"

"It's a fair point. But maybe you should focus on the things he's more liable to notice. What's more important? Making sure the guards are where they should be and that there's no obvious deficiencies in the building? Or making sure there's no pet food in your desk?"

Sarge considered this. "You make a point there, girlilocks.”

"That's what I'm here for. That and to shoot anyone who tries to escape," Flowers said cheerfully. He nudged Sarge's shoulder with his foot. "Now turn that frown upside down."

"Don't pep talk me." Sarge got to his feet, picked up the box of animal crackers. "Cobra biscuit?"

"Don't mind if I do.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, the day before the inspection, Wyoming sat outside the infirmary room that O'Malley was still locked in.

"Everything's in place for the big inspection. Doesn't it just make your toes curl with excitement, my friend?" Wyoming was playing with a piece of paper. Paper that was leftover from his previous conversations with O'Malley, during which O'Malley had given him instructions. Wyoming had crossed out instructions as he fulfilled them. "The zealots have been keeping discreet ears and eyes out. The guard patterns should be reasonably easy to guess, and most of them should be pulled away from the important areas by the zealots. We should be able to get the keys off whoever's guarding nearby—they'll likely be on their own—which'll get us into the important places. And in turn, those places will get us out. Once we're outside the fences, anything goes, but until then I've got it plotted out rather well. You can move around well enough, I'm sure? You'll need to be able to do that."

Wyoming had expected either a note or, at best, a grunt. But for the first time in a while, O'Malley actually spoke. His speech sounded slightly off, like his tongue still wasn't quite right, but he was understandable.

"I can move as much as is necessary. I'm not a delicate china doll."

"Forgive the implications. I haven't actually seen you in quite a while and it's hard to tell what goes on behind closed doors."

"Doc has not returned, has he?"

"I'm afraid not. Believe me, I had him right on the edge there. He was very tempted! But I'm afraid it just didn't take. Such a pity. What do you have in store for the doctor? Death?"

"After all the trouble I've gone through to get him back? No. But he will wish for it by the time I'm finished with him," O'Malley said. "He is not getting away without punishment."

"That's the right attitude. Like training a dog, isn't it? If you kick it, it knows it's done wrong. Of course, do it often enough and it'll leave... or maul you." Wyoming shrugged. "Well, up to you. Once we're out, you can have as many psychotic obsessions as you want."

"Yes. It'll be delightful." O'Malley chuckled, the first proper evil chuckle he'd done since his tongue was bitten in two. He probably could have before then, but having a constant pain in your tongue tended to remove the urge. "I have missed the freedom of the outside. It wasn't just a matter of picking victims from what was available. It's like comparing a mall to a tiny corner side shop."

"Only you would make that comparison."

"Good. If there were too many of me, they'd get to the good victims before I could."

"It would be a sad world.”


	23. Chapter Seventeen: Well, Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the inspection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long one. Over 12000 words. It covers about half an hour of time. Funny how that works. Slightly early because I got overexcited.

“Sarge! He's here.”

Sarge had been in his office for the last two hours, trying to look professional and like he was actually doing paperwork. However, after a while he had fallen asleep. So when Vic did finally arrive, led into the office by Flowers, Sarge was using his paperwork as a pillow.

“Eh?” Sarge sat up. A sheet of his paperwork was stuck to the side of his face. “I was having a power nap! It's the best way to stay energized throughout the day, so I can spring into action when it's most important!”

Flowers smiled in a half-friendly, half-condescending way. “Of course. Anyway, I'm sure Vic would like to see the prison. See all the rascals wandering around. I should get back to keeping watch.” He turned around and walked out. Vic brushed off his plain suit before waving.

“Yo, dude, what's going on?”

"Took your sweet time getting here!" Sarge grumbled. "What took you so long? You were supposed to be here at ten! It's nearly midday, you..."

"Sorry, dude. There was traffic. Heaps of it. And I stopped for brunch, they had half-price at this pad I like." Vic looked around. "Nice office, man. Lots of medals. Very nice, very shiny. You gonna show me around or what, dude?"

"Sure. The dirtbags should be finishing work about now, so you're too late for that part, but they'll all be gathering in the cafeteria. Any problems arise, you'll see our men at work. But for now, let's just bask in the victorious smell of... victory."

"Victory? Against what, dude?"

"Uh. Against... dirtbags. Against criminal dirtbags. Yep. Anyway, I'll show you to the cafeteria. And afterwards maybe you'd like to see the infirmary? We have a doctor now, I'll have you know. A proper one. Competent woman. Knows a lot of long words. Can take a stabbing without dying."

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool."

 

* * *

 

Most of the other guards had been moved into prominent sight, so that Vic could see how 'well-guarded' the place was. However, when assigning positions for the day, he'd decided to keep Wash out of sight. Something about how 'the madness in his eyes was too obvious.' Followed by several questions as to what war Wash had fought in (ignoring Wash insisting that he had never been a part of the military) because 'that's a thousand yard stare if I ever saw one.'

As such, Wash was moping around the more secluded areas of the prison. He didn't mind the work so much as the reason.

While he wandering the corridors, something bounced off the back of his head. Wash stopped, frowning and picking up the object. It was a paper cup, with drops of orange juice still clinging to the inside. Wash looked at it, then looked at the man who'd thrown it.

The Red Zealot stared at him, clearly trying to look taller than he was.

“That was stupid,” Wash said quietly, taking a step towards him.

“All hail His Holy Flappiness!” the Zealot squeaked loudly. He threw another paper cup at Wash.

“Can you not—“

A third cup bounced off Wash's forehead. Wash kicked the cup to the side before pulling out his nightstick.

"All hail His Holy Flappiness and all his flappy glory!" the Zealot yelled. Then he turned and ran.

“Come back here!”

Wash sprinted after him. The little guy was fast. Maybe it was because of his size or all those weird exercises he did in front of the flag, but either way any attempt to grab him resulted in him barely evading Wash's grasp.

And then a minute or so into the chase, the Zealot came to an abrupt halt. Wash slammed the nightstick into his chest, harder perhaps than he would have ordinarily because he didn't have time to slow down, and the Zealot immediately toppled over. Wash reached down and yanked him to his feet again.

“What are you doing back here?” Wash asked. “You should be in the cafeteria.”

"Helping the prophet!" the zealot said, squirming a little.

"Helping who?"

"The prophet."

"Who's the prophet?"

"The prophet is the prophet," the Red Zealot insisted.

As Wash considered whether beating the Zealot until he admitted what he was actually up to was worth it (no-one would be likely to press charges, no-one ever came to visit the Zealot and after what he did to Henderson Wash doubted any staff would kick up a fuss over a few bruises) a crashing noise came from the room they were standing in front of.

Wash realised where they were. They were in front of the temporary infirmary. Where they kept O'Malley.

Great.

Without letting go of the Zealot, Wash felt around his belt with his free hand and located his keys. It took some more fidgeting to figure out which key was the right one. He still had both the infirmary keys, since York had never managed to take them. He unlocked the door and walked in, dragging the Zealot with him.

The ceiling light had been knocked out. The room was only lit by the light spilling in from the doorway. Wash had a moment to register that darkness—closed space, too dark, too dark—before O'Malley, grinning manically, appeared out of that darkness and swung a chair at him. Wash ducked back just in time, but in the process let go of the Zealot.

The Zealot immediately shut the door behind them, and threw them all into pitch darkness, except for one little line of light shining from underneath the door.

Normally, this wouldn't have been a fight that Wash could lose. O'Malley was an aging old man with no particular combat experience, and the Red Zealot was small and barely out of his teens, despite how speedy he was.

But it was dark. Wash couldn't be in the dark. He just couldn't. Especially not with O'Malley. Not again.

Wash panicked. He couldn't see them. He could only feel them. His punches were all over the place and they seemed to miss every time. He hit a wall. Hands grabbed his wrists. Something sharp and pointy touched his throat, digging in just enough to set a steady trickle of blood leaking down his neck.

“Well, now. Doesn't this feel familiar, David?” O'Malley breathed. He was close. Wash could feel his breath on his face. His mind was filling with old memories.

Wash could almost hear the growling in the corner. Could almost hear the footsteps of the Meta prowling behind him, ready to lash out. The fear was pooling in his stomach and rose in his throat. It burned. The weapon scraping his throat was nothing compared to how dark it was.

“It's too dark for sacrifices,” the Zealot whined quietly. “I need sight.”

“Later, Zealot. We've got more exciting things to do.”

One of them pulled the keys from Wash's hands. Someone briefly touched his belt, checking for more. He felt the weight of his can of pepper spray disappear before it was held very close to his eye.

“I might not have time to relieve old times, Washington. But you'll have plenty of it. Have fun,” O'Malley said, his smile still so evident in his voice.

The hands vanished from Wash's wrists. Immediately, Wash lunged forward. Trying to grab O'Malley's throat. No real thoughts other than an overwhelming desire to put the man down like a mad dog. But his movements were too frightened and clumsy. There was the hiss of spray, and the white-hot burn of the pepper spray hit him, consuming his eyes, nose and mouth.

Through the burning and the coughing and hacking that followed, he thought he saw light for just a moment. He definitely heard the sound of the door swinging open and slamming shut again.

By the time he felt his way to the door—and even if the light hadn't been out he wouldn't have been able to see anything, not with the burn in his eyes and the coughing that was making more mucus than what seemed possible come out his nose and mouth—it was locked.

Wash tried to yell. Tried to alert someone. All that came out was more coughing and a wheezy, fragmented 'O'Malley.' Reaching down, he fumbled until he could feel the little gap underneath the door.

He couldn't see the light. But he knew it was there. Just like a nightlight. That was what Wash told himself. This wasn't the basement. He could get out of this. Someone would hear him, or the spray would wear off eventually, and this door couldn't hold forever.

Wash backed up a little before ramming the door with his shoulder. He stopped to cough up another glob of burning muck before repeating it, again and again.

The entire time, he did his best to tell himself that he wasn't trapped.

 

* * *

 

"Well. That actually went much smoother than I thought it would," O'Malley said. "Most likely won't hold him forever, but it'll work for long enough. Where's Wyoming?"

"He is near the entrance to the source of light, oh prophet."

"Of course he is."

"Did I do well? Did I prove myself? I did everything you asked, oh prophet. Is the flag pleased? Will it let me see colours like I once did?” the Red Zealot asked, a fanatical, desperate tone in his voice.

“Soon. Only if we escape the, erm... purgatory. Yes. Do you have the time?"

The Red Zealot checked his watch. It was a cheap two-dollar watch made out of colourful plastic. Wyoming had acquired a few for this escape plan. Time was of the essence.

"Fifteen past twelve, oh prophet!"

"Then we have enough." O'Malley twirled the set of keys he'd taken off Wash around his finger for a moment before slipping them into his pocket. "You stay ahead and warn me about any guards."

A few minutes later (the Red Zealot's watch read 12:21) they saw both Wyoming and Andy waiting around in the corridor, along with three more zealots. Near the door that led to the engine room. Andy was fidgeting impatiently. Wyoming looked calm as always.

"About goddamn time," Andy said. "You got the keys or have you already fucked up?"

O'Malley didn't answer, he just pulled out the keys and twirled them around his finger again.

"Oh yeah, great. Only took you forever. I'll be back in a minute." Andy turned around, ran down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.

"He complains about us wasting his time and then runs off?" O'Malley grumbled.

"He is very inconsiderate, prophet. Shall I sacrifice him to the flag?" the Red Zealot asked.

"Now, really. Did you expect him to stand around in open sight with a bag of explosives?" Wyoming said. "He'll be back in a moment. Now, I trust you won't get distracted on the way out?"

"No. I actually feel quite good." O'Malley didn't mention that it was probably because of the changes to his medication that the new doctor had made. Apparently she was competent when it came to medicine. His hands had been shaking less since she took the job, though they hadn't stopped entirely.

"Excellent. We have a schedule to keep." Wyoming was holding one of the cheap watches. "At twelve thirty, Andy will destroy whatever keeps the electricity running in there. Hopefully.”

“Your faith in this idea is comforting,” O'Malley said, rolling his eyes.

“What's there to lose, my friend?” Wyoming raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Exciting, isn't it?”

“I can't deny that,” O'Malley laughed.

Andy returned, carrying a plastic bag of homemade explosives. Made of relatively everyday ingredients, ones that could be smuggled into the prison (or snuck out of the kitchen, in some cases) without so much as a raised eyebrow.

"You sure you can't tell me what the stuff I'm supposed to fuck up looks like?" Andy asked.

"Sadly, I can't. If there are doubts, just blow up whatever looks most expensive," Wyoming said.

Andy grinned widely. "Aye aye, Captain. Unlock the door already."

“Remember,” Wyoming said, as O'Malley unlocked the door. “12:30. Not one second earlier or later. Understand?”

“I gotcha, gramps.”

 

* * *

 

As Church walked through the cafeteria, holding his tray tightly and watching out for anyone who might try and trip him for a cheap laugh (prison could be like elementary school in that way) he could very clearly hear Donut and Caboose's conversation.

"I do not understand."

"How can you not understand? It's really simple," Donut insisted. "Jetpacks are a valued commodity. They let people fly around. It's badass."

"But a wizard would be able to fly with magic," Caboose said stubbornly. "He would not need a jetpack."

"Not until his magic contract wears out. Or else he would be able to leave the kingdom, and he's not allowed to do that yet."

"Why?"

"I don't know, ask the magician. Besides, jetpacks are still more awesome than wings. Wings make it so hard to find clothes that fit."

"And I thought Grif and Simmons' conversations were stupid," Church muttered as he walked past.

“Right here, dude,” Grif grumbled from his seat.

“Also, for the record? I'm with Donut on this. Jetpacks are absolutely better than wings,” Simmons said.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Simmons? Wings are better. They'd be like giant feathery blankets when you're napping,” Grif replied, giving Simmons an offended look.

“A jetpack you can take off and upgrade. You can't upgrade wings,” Simmons said stubbornly.

“Wings are less likely to fail in mid-air,” Grif shot back.

“Whatever. Me and Donut know what's up,” Simmons said.

“Team Jetpack represent,” Donut said cheerfully. He held out his hand for a high five, which Simmons returned without looking over.

“Oh god,” Church muttered, dropping into his seat and covering his face.

“No-one's asking you to join,” Donut said, scowling. “Don't run our fun, you… fun-killer.”

“Oh, snap,” Grif said.

The moment Church had appeared, Caboose had gone quiet and raised his hands in order to shield Church from his view. He'd been doing that for the last few days. Donut gave Caboose a comforting pat on the shoulder before giving Church a dirty look.

"Don't you have someone else to sit with?" Donut asked.

"Obviously not. You think I'd still be sitting here if I did?" Church sat down as far away as he could manage while staying at the same table. "I'm not sitting on my own. There's people that want to kick my ass everywhere. Fucking everywhere!"

"Including here," Grif pointed out.

"Yeah, but you're not acting on it." Church poked at his food grumpily.

Not that he ever liked the prison, but he'd begun to hate it as of late. He'd forgotten how bad the place was when everyone despised his company. He glanced over at the cafeteria line. He could see Tucker there, lining up to get his food. Church quickly looked down again so he wouldn't be caught looking. Donut had noticed, but he just squinted slightly and went back to his food.

Church scowled, then looked around the cafeteria. He noticed Sarge walking around with some guy in a suit. Probably the inspector guy. Sarge was gesturing around at the prisoners, and even from over here Church could hear the word 'dirtbags' crop up several times.

Church snorted and went back to looking around. His eyes landed on Miller and a bunch of his friends huddled together at one table. Miller was talking. As he did, he looked over briefly to the cafeteria line. Where Tucker was lining up. Then, as Church watched, he saw that members of Miller's group were peeling away from the main group to go and sit down elsewhere, or talk to people here and there. Spreading evenly throughout the cafeteria.

Could have been anything, but it was setting off Church's nerves. Nerves that had been retired for a long time, but which came from years of directing other people in fights.

Miller was soon left alone at his table. Then he pulled back his sleeve slightly. Checking a cheap, plastic watch. After a few moments, he got up and beelined right for Tucker. One lumpy, plasticine-like hand lingering near the pocket of his jacket.

...Wait. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Guys—“ Church started.

And then there was a noise. A distant, but somehow still deafening noise. Like when a match was lit, but much, much louder.

Then the lights flickered once. Twice. Then they shut off and threw the entire cafeteria into darkness.

All hell broke loose.

 

* * *

 

Tucker had no clue what was going on.

One second, he was standing in line and waiting for his bowl of mystery meat. The next second, the lights had flickered off. And the moment after that, he got tackled into the nearest table by Miller.

“Ow, fuck!”

Tucker rolled off the table and crawled underneath it, holding his food tray like a shield. In the short time that had taken, the entire cafeteria had seemingly exploded. He could hear fights breaking out everywhere. The only light sources were the few flashlights that various guards were carrying and now attempting to use to find their way to the fights. And even from here, he could swear he heard faint bangs going off outside.

“What the shit? What the shit, what the fuck—“

Tucker saw a hint of movement nearby and instinctively lifted the tray, and heard something scrape against it before Miller jumped him again. He had a shiv in one hand, clasped as tightly as he could manage, and it had left a long, white line along the plastic tray.

“Miller, back off! I don't have time for your bullshit!” Tucker yelled.

“Too bad, Tucker. Because I've waited far too long for this. It'll be quicker if you stay still—“ Miller tried stabbing at Tucker with the shiv again, but Tucker managed to block it again with the tray.

“Jesus, Miller, fuck off! I won our last cafeteria fight, don't fucking push me!”

“Yeah? How are your lungs doing?”

“Better than your hands!” Tucker snapped.

“My hands are good enough to take you down. You're going to Hell, boy. And then Joannes can kick your ass again himself when you get there."

“It's Jones. Jones! And don't call me 'boy!'”

Tucker lashed out, kicking Miller in the chest and shoving him away, before trying to get to his feet and get away. He barely made it a foot before Miller tackled him again. This time, the tray got knocked out of Tucker's grip, flung away into the rioting crowd. Miller grabbed him around the neck, struggling to put him in a headlock. The shiv briefly dug into Tucker's face, shallowly slicing his right cheek, before Tucker managed to force it away again.

Well, shit.

 

* * *

 

"What's the situation in there, zealot?" Wyoming called. The Red Zealot was peering through the doorway, trying to stay out of sight. Not difficult in the darkness.

“Chaos! It's pure chaos! ...Oh, the sea of seething orange it must be,” the Zealot said wistfully.

"Most excellent." Wyoming made a motion for them all to move forwards. "We should get going, then."

"And what do we do if any guards see us? They know I'm not supposed to be out of my cage!" O'Malley hissed.

“I think they have better things to worry about, chum. They won't pay attention to us if we stay low. We just have to swallow our pride and crawl. Tally ho!” Wyoming dropped to his knees and crawled into the cafeteria, quickly taking shelter under one of the tables.

O'Malley sighed before crawling after him. Of all the escapes, crawling across the floor wasn't the most interesting or dignified. It was too much like a game of make-believe that one would play when they were a toddler. But the most interesting options weren't always practical.

His hand slipped for a moment in a spilt bowl of mystery stew, and someone briefly elbowed him in the side before getting involved in a different fight. Messy and violent, but O'Malley kept crawling until someone called out his name.

O'Malley looked behind him. Lopez was moving towards him, looking furious.

“Ah. My old minion. I don't suppose you decided to join us? You never did kill off that tongue-biting pastry for me, so I assumed—“

“ _No. I'm here to do this._ ”

Lopez punched O'Malley in the face.

 

* * *

 

Like a sane person, the first thing Donut did once the riot started was hide under the table. He was quickly joined by Grif, Simmons and Caboose. Church hadn't had the chance to hide, because one of the inmates had decided to start hitting him with a lunch tray.

"Ow! Fuck off, douchebag!" Church yelled, trying to shield himself against the tray with his arms. It wasn't working well. The inmate just kept hitting him until Caboose reached out and grasped the inmate's ankle.

"Do not do that," Caboose said quietly. The inmate looked down and went pale.

"Don't crush my head! Don't break my fingers! Please!" The inmate ran off, still waving around the lunch tray. Church crawled underneath the table as well.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck's going on?” Church muttered.

"That man was one of Miller's friends," Caboose said. "I have seen him before. When I was making Miller not hurt people anymore."

"I think he's breaking that rule, dude," Grif said.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Church kept muttering. He tried to see if Tex was anywhere near Tucker—she could handle this shit, Tex could handle anything—but he could barely see anything. Even squinting near where Tucker had been, he could only see glimpses of movement by the light caused by the continuously moving flashlights.

“ _Come back here!_ ”

“Excuse me, chaps!” Wyoming crawled underneath the table with them, squeezing between Donut and Grif, before moving onwards.

“Don't just go crawling through my enemies!” O'Malley appeared. Even just a glimpse of his face was enough for Caboose to yelp and try to pull Donut away from him, but O'Malley just crawled around the table instead of going through them. “You're lucky I don't have time for fun, pastry!”

Donut let out a sigh of relief as O'Malley crawled away, followed by a small sea of zealots. “I was worried for a second.”

" _Stop him, you fruitcake! Stop O'Malley!_ " Lopez forced his way past them, also crawling. It was the fastest method of movement at the moment, as there was too much fighting going on to walk without getting knocked over.

“Oh! He said O'Malley! I heard the word O'Malley! Holy shit, I can speak Spanish!” Grif yelled.

“Wait, that was O'Malley? That skinny old man? I was expecting someone… bigger,” Simmons said. He glanced sideways at Grif. “You know, no-one would notice if he kicked the bucket mid-riot. Not with the darkness and all this bullshit.”

“Yeah, good point. Be better if we had weapons with us, but fuck it,” Grif said. “Let's do it.”

They exchanged a quick fist bump before leaving the safety of the table, moving in the same direction as Wyoming, O'Malley and the zealots.

“What? Wait, guys, don't—fuck!” Donut yelled. “Guys, you're going to get stabbed! Wait it out! Guys!”

Well… he couldn't just let Grif and Simmons run off on their own.

“Caboose, stay here,” Donut said.

“Huh? Chocolate Tart?”

Donut, with an air of irritated resignation, crawled off into the rioting crowd and tried to go after them. He had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to regret this.

 

* * *

 

During the interruption caused by O'Malley and his cronies, Church hadn't really been paying attention. He'd been trying to spot Tucker or Tex or… someone. He thought he saw a few glimpses of Tucker, and maybe one glimpse of some crippled, plasticine hands that had to belong to Miller. But no Tex. No-one who could protect Tucker.

He only realised that O'Malley had gone charging past when Donut crawled off, trying to convince Grif and Simmons to stay back. Caboose was still there, staring after Donut and looking confused and worried.

Caboose could easily make it to Tucker. He was a freaking bulldozer.

“Caboose! I take back everything I said! You're not a traitor! I was just being douchey!” Church said desperately. “But I really need your help right now. Seriously, I have never needed your help more, just—“

Caboose looked at him. Then over in the direction Donut had crawled off to. Back at Church once more. Slowly, he shook his head.

“I am sorry, Church.” That was all he said before he went after Donut.

“Fuck. Fuck!” Church yelled.

Well… that meant it was up to him.

Church clambered out from underneath the table. He got up. And he ran. Nevermind that there were fights all around him. That he tripped, and that people aimed blows at him. Nevermind that he could easily get himself killed. Nevermind that Tucker hated him.

This was just some bullshit he had to do.

 

* * *

 

"How many people are following us?" Wyoming asked, not looking behind him. "How many, zealot?"

"Uh..." the Red Zealot quickly glanced behind him. He was the furthest behind. "Four. No, five. There is one further back. But four nearby! Including the washer of cloth!"

"Lovely. An excuse to get rid of him. Stop whoever is following us," O'Malley growled. "And kill the pastry."

"Pastry?"

"The washer of cloth!"

"The washer of cloth?! But... but he is the washer of cloth!" the Red Zealot protested. "He who cleanses fabric! It is a sacred profession!"

"I don't care what he is! Get rid of him!"

"But—"

"It's a test of faith! Do you want to be damned to Blue Hell?" O'Malley yelled.

"Never!"

"Then do what I say!"

The Red Zealot closed his eyes briefly. "Yes, prophet. Followers of the Flag!" he yelled to the zealots that were with him. "Stop the men that try to prevent our escape from this purgatory! And destroy the washer of cloth!" Under his breath, he added, "Flag forgive us."

 

* * *

 

“Guys, come on! Stop being stupid!” Donut yelled as he caught up to Grif and Simmons. His injuries were already aching from the pressure put on them, and the only reason he managed to catch up at all was that the others had been briefly impeded by a cluster of struggling inmates. In the midst of the crowds, he thought he could see a glimpse of O'Malley's vivid red hair. Same for the red pieces of cloth each zealot wore around their neck. “Just let him go!”

“But he's a douchebag!” Grif protested.

“Major douchebag,” Simmons said. “He took your ear!”

“He tried to rape you!” Grif added. “That's sick!”

“I know, I was there!” Donut said. “But this isn't worth it! And it's suicidal! He's got zealots following—oh, fuck.”

Three of the four zealots had stopped and turned around, with only their leader following O'Malley. All three of them removed shivs from their pockets.

"Down with the infidels! Down with the cloth washer!" one of them yelled. "It is the will of the Flag!"

"It feels wrong! That's the cloth washer!" another one whispered.

"It is the will of the Flag!" the third shouted.

All three attacked. One of them attacked Lopez, who was closest. Another tackled Grif, while a third grabbed Donut.

“Get off me!” Donut yelled, kicking and slapping at the zealot clinging to him, while trying to keep the shiv as far away from him as possible.

“Never—ack!”

Hands grabbed the zealot attacking Donut, pulling him off easily. Caboose gripped the man and yanked him back, causing him to stumble a few feet away. He put himself between the zealot and Donut, crouched and ready.

“You will not. Hurt. Butterscotch,” Caboose said. He glanced over at the other two zealots. Simmons had, in the time this occurred, grabbed a lunch tray and slammed it repeatedly over the head of the one attacking Grif. The third was still grappling with Lopez. Caboose grasped Donut's arm and moved them both closer, before reaching out and slapping the back of the head of Lopez's attacker, distracting him from his original target.

Lopez didn't say a word once the zealot was distracted. He just immediately went after O'Malley again.

“He's too strong! He's the Anti-Flag!” one of the zealots yelped.

“We must do our duty!” another yelled. All three of the zealots turned to Caboose, but all of them were obviously afraid. Caboose glanced back at Donut.

“Teacake! Hide somewhere safe!” he said.

“What about you?!”

“I will be okay. I am always okay after I get attacked.” Caboose frowned at the zealots. “I am more worried about them. I do not want to be a murderer again.”

“There's no time for this!” Simmons said as he pulled Grif up into a sitting position. “Come on, fatass, we're falling behind!”

“I'm going, I'm going!” Grif grumbled. The both of them crawled off again. O'Malley was out of sight, but Lopez could still be seen.

“Guys, goddammit!” Donut yelled. He looked back at Caboose as one of the zealots lunged at him, but Caboose lashed out and punched the man, knocking the shiv out of his hand where it went flying into the seething riot. “Caboose, I need to go after them!”

“You might get hurt!” Caboose shouted back.

“I know! It's what friends do, right?”

“Yes. It is.” Caboose looked back at him once more. “I will catch up. ...Be careful, Angel Cake.”

Donut nodded before throwing himself after the others. As he did so, he heard Caboose trying to ward off the zealots with threats concerning toast.

 

* * *

 

Tucker lost the fight the moment that Miller's foot made contact with his chest, right along the old surgical scars from when the doctors tried to fix his lungs and ribs. Miller was just bigger and more vicious. Didn't matter how fucked his hands were.

That foot made contact. Tucker lost all the breath he had and was sent reeling. He fought for breath. Miller dug his knee into Tucker's chest, deeper and deeper, and used his other leg to pin down one of his arms.

The shiv was in his hands. Tucker saw it for a moment, the occasional glimpse of light bouncing off it. He saw Miller's frenzied stare.

The shiv came down.

Tucker grabbed Miller's wrist with his remaining hand, just barely stopping the shiv from getting buried in his skull.

It didn't save his eye.

Tucker started shrieking. A shriek that quickly trailed off into a harsh choking noise as what little breath he'd gathered left as quickly as it come. Miller pulled the shiv back, and Tucker felt liquid on his face and a bizarre, horrible feeling of something being displaced. A chunk of something wet hit his cheek.

“Should have stayed still, Tucker,” Miller said. “That one was for Joannes.”

The shiv was nearing again.

“This one? This one's for me.”

The shiv coming down again, this time slashing rather than stabbing, would be the last thing Tucker ever saw.

Moments later, an arm wrapped around Miller's neck.

 

* * *

 

Church forgot that Miller had a sharp weapon and he had only hands. He forgot about his promise to Tex. He forgot about everything except Tucker. Everything except making Miller pay. He put all his weight into pulling Miller away from Tucker. Into crushing the life out of his windpipe.

Miller kicked and flailed, and tried to carve Church's hands off him. The shiv, already coated in Tucker's blood, dug into Church's arm. Church only tightened his grip. But it wasn't hard, from where he was, to grab the shiv with his free hand. To wrench it out of Miller's plasticine grip.

He pulled back, jerking Miller's chin up.

“Don't you—“ Miller started.

One of the flashlights shone directly in Church's eyes for a moment. Sliding over him quickly on its way to somewhere else. He saw red as it faded. He didn't know if it was blood, the bright imprint left over from the light, or whether it was just—

Church jammed the shiv into Miller's throat.

Blood spurted out, coating his hands, covering the shiv with another layer of red. It was not a clean throat cut. Miller thrashed and struggled, and Church kept his grip tight and tried to finish the job, only to end up doing little more than dig in further, twisting the shiv back and forth and shredding Miller's throat to bits. Trying to make sure that there was no chance Miller would ever get back up. Not letting go even when Miller went from thrashing to twitching.

He only let go when someone pulled him off, slamming him into the concrete floor. It was a guard he didn't know by name—not Tex, but still someone who could have helped but came too late—who tried to… to do what? Knock him unconscious to stop him killing again? Like it mattered, now that he'd killed Miller, now that—

Fuck, he promised Tex.

Whatever the guard's intentions, another inmate took a swing at the guard moments later, and the guard was pulled back into the fighting and away from Church. Church breathed out, then looked around wildly.

“Tucker? Tucker?!”

There was a groan from nearby.

“Tucker, fuck, where are you—“ Church shifted towards the noise. The adrenaline was fading. The pain in his side was gathering. Nearby, Miller was still moving. Laggy, half-dead movements as his hands went for his own throat in a futile, dying attempt to stifle the bleeding.

For a moment, Church saw his father. He shut his eyes and kept moving.

Eventually, his hands touched Tucker's shoulder.

“Tucker? Are you…?” He didn't know what to ask. 'Are you okay?' That had too obvious an answer.

The riot continued to rage around them, but Church still heard Tucker answer.

“Church?” Tucker rolled onto his back, hands still covering his eyes. “Fuck… that you, man?” His voice was raspy and breathless.

“Yeah. Yeah, it's me.” Church grasped Tucker and pulled him over to the shelter of underneath a nearby table, ignoring the sharp pain in his arm as he did so.

“What happened to—“

“Don't worry about him. He's down.”

“Shit. Shit, Church, I...” There was a long pause. A long, shuddering breath before Tucker lowered his hands from his eyes. “...How bad is it?”

Church couldn't help it. He let out a stunned, whispered 'fuck.' There really wasn't much else he could say. Tucker's eyes were both mangled to hell and back. They were barely recognisable as having ever been eyes.

“That… that bad, huh?”

“No shit.” Church removed his jacket, wadding it up before reaching out towards Tucker. His fingers froze inches from the man's face. “Stay still, alright? I'm just… just stifling the bleeding.” He pressed the jacket to the upper half of Tucker's face.

His arm was bloody where Miller had carved it up, and started dripping onto Tucker's jacket. Tucker twitched a little as it soaked through his shirt.

“...That's not me, is it?”

“Don't worry about it.”

Tucker reached up, his fingertips brushing Church's arm before inching closer to the wound, the only way he could check with no eyesight. His fingers smeared the blood along Church's arm before Tucker pulled his hand back abruptly.

“Lot of blood.”

“It's fine.”

Tucker shifted a little, removing his own jacket before trying to clumsily wrap it around Church's arm.

“It's fine, Tucker—“

“Shut up, I got it, I...” Tucker trailed off. “...Church, I can't fucking see.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean… I can't… see, I—“

“Tucker!” Church moved a hand from the wad of jacket near Tucker's eyes and quickly pressed it against Tucker's shoulder. “I'm here. I'm not leaving.”

Tucker's response could barely be heard over the nose. But it was brimming with relief. “Thank god.”

 

* * *

 

"Finally." Wyoming crawled through the other cafeteria door. It was slightly lighter out here, because this corridor was on the edge of the yard, so light could shine in from tiny, high-up windows. As soon as he was out of sight of the cafeteria, he got to his feet and started running. O'Malley and the Red Zealot followed suit. The Red Zealot still looked troubled, a far cry from his usual hyperactive self. "Almost there."

“Why'd it have to be through the cafeteria?” O'Malley muttered.

“Not my fault that the temporary infirmary is in a bizarre location. If we didn't have to do this on such a tight schedule—“

“ _O'Malley!_ ”

"Gah, he's so irritatingly persistent. I thought you sent people to stop them!" O'Malley snarled at the Red Zealot.

"I did!"

Lopez was fast. Fast enough to catch up to O'Malley when they weren't crawling. He dodged the zealot and grabbed O'Malley around the neck. The Red Zealot pulled a shiv from his jacket.

"Release the prophet!" he screamed. Lopez completely ignored him, focused on O'Malley.

" _You will pay for what you did to my wife!_ "

"What did you do this time, chap?" Wyoming sighed, coming to a halt and turning around to look at the chaos with the look of a man whose waitress was taking too long to make his tea.

"I'm not even sure." O'Malley wriggled out of Lopez's grip and pulled his screwdriver out. Lopez put himself between O'Malley and Wyoming, blocking O'Malley from the way he needed to go. "Now, Lopez. Don't do anything stupid. Minions aren't exactly known for intelligence, but even so... you don't want to fight me."

"We're running out of time," Wyoming pointed out.

"I know that, fool!"

The zealot made to move forward, but Grif and Simmons tackled him from behind in what amounted to an awkward dogpile. Simmons, having been ahead of Grif due to being less unhealthy, managed to wrestle the shiv out of the zealot's hand before handing it up the pile to Grif.

“There. Weapon taken care of,” Simmons said. “Cut his fucking throat out, Grif.”

“Will do.” The two of them exchanged a brief fistbump before Grif climbed to his feet. Still breathing heavily from the race across the cafeteria, but grinning.

"You're completely fucked," Grif said, grinning.

"Can you hand me the keys once you're finished, Grif?" Wyoming asked.

"Traitor!" O'Malley yelled.

Wyoming shrugged. “I'm a frail old man. Do you expect me to get involved in the fight? I'm being practical, my friend.”

O'Malley edged backwards, pointing his screwdriver at Grif. Then Lopez. Back and forth. Grif tried to get O'Malley to aim it away from him for more than two seconds with the power of his mind, but it didn't work. "So, is it going to be like that? What a pity."

"Shun the non-believers!" the Red Zealot chirped from underneath Simmons.

"Shut up, zealot! You're being completely useless!" O'Malley yelled. "The flag would be very disappointed in you!"

“...Disappointed?” the Red Zealot whispered, eyes going wide with horror.

O'Malley focused on Grif. Probably because he was the one holding the shiv. "I don't believe we've even met. What do you stand to gain?"

"You attacked a guy who reminds me of a sixteen-year-old girl," Grif said. "Not cool."

"Oh. The pastry. Why do so many seem to like that little sugarpuff?" O'Malley pointed the screwdriver at Lopez, who was trying to edge closer. Attempting to find a good way to attack that wouldn't get him shanked. "I really would give it up before something happens."

"I can't disappoint the Flag..." the Red Zealot whispered.

Wyoming was just watching with a mixed look of impatience and amusement. "Can't you hurry it up?"

"Attack on the count of three?" Grif muttered.

" _Sooner,_ " Lopez replied.

"On three or after three?" Simmons asked.

"On three. It's always faster to go on three."

Everyone's focus was on O'Malley. No-one noticed the Red Zealot squirming enough to get his free hand underneath him.

“You will not trap us in this purgatory, traitor! For the Flag!” the Red Zealot screeched, pulling out another shiv. One that Simmons hadn't noticed. Simmons only had a chance to look down before the Zealot plunged it into his stomach.

"Simmons? Shit, Simmons?!"

Simmons let out a short scream that was quickly cut off. And even as Grif turned away from O'Malley, the man immediately forgotten, the Red Zealot started to drag the shiv across Simmons' stomach.

"Sacrifice through blood. Sacrifice through blood," the Red Zealot murmured, dragging the shiv slowly. Whenever the shiv jerked, hitting something it couldn't easily cut through, Simmons twitched. It was the only movement he made. His face was twisted. At the same time, he looked confused. Like he wasn't sure what was happening.

“Stop! Stop!” Grif screamed. Why was it taking him so long to reach Simmons? He'd only been running for a couple of seconds, but it felt like years.

Grif reached them. He grabbed the Zealot and tried, out of sheer panic, to yank him off. The Zealot got pulled away, but he jerked the shiv out with him, tearing Simmons' stomach open like a paper bag. Blood gushed. Innards threatened to do the same. Simmons grabbed at his stomach, eyes wide and disbelieving, before he toppled and hit the floor.

Grif stared for a moment. Because that couldn't have happened. Not to Simmons. Anyone but Simmons.

Things slowed down for a moment. It didn't matter that Lopez was attacking O'Malley. O'Malley just didn't matter at all now. It didn't matter that Wyoming was there, watching Lopez and O'Malley roll around on the floor with mild amusement. None of that mattered.

What mattered was that Simmons was bleeding. Simmons was dying. And the one responsible was in Grif's grip. Staring down at his own blood-soaked hands, and the shiv he was holding, and looking puzzled.

“It's not the same colour,” the Red Zealot murmured. “It's not as bright. Why isn't it as bright? Why can't I feel the flagpole's light? Why isn't sacrifice enough?!”

Grif felt numb. There was one thought in his head. He turned on the zealot, who was still transfixed at the sight of his own shiv.

"You... you..."

That was all Grif could choke out.

Then he lunged forward and tackled the zealot to the ground. Holding the first shiv that Simmons had removed from the zealot's grip, he brought it down and stabbed the zealot in the chest. He felt something splinter and the shiv scrape against something hard, likely bone, and the zealot screamed and dropped his own shiv. But it wasn't enough. Grif pulled the shiv out and stabbed again. Again. Again. Then, the fifth and final time, Grif stabbed him in the chest once more, twisted the shiv and left it there. He turned away and started to crawl to Simmons.

"I can't feel its light..." he heard the Red Zealot whisper. "Did I... did I do something wrong?"

That was all Grif heard from him.

"Simmons... Just... Just hang on," Grif whispered. He pressed his hands to Simmons' stomach. He didn't think about it. He was on autopilot. He wasn't thinking. He was just doing.

The blood had soaked Simmons' jacket through already. Grif could feel squishy things that shouldn't be outside the body. It had cut deep. Grif couldn't hold it all in with his hands.

Simmons was still conscious. His fingers were twitching. His eyes were rolling, like he was going insane from the pain.

"Stop bleeding. Stop bleeding, goddammit," Grif choked out. He could still hear Lopez and O'Malley fighting behind him. He distantly heard Donut yell. It didn't matter. Simmons was still bleeding. "Stop it. You're... you're not allowed to do this! Stop it!"

Footsteps behind Grif. Donut was there. Staring down at Simmons with wide eyes.

“Oh god,” Donut whimpered. “Simmons—“

“Do something,” Grif said thickly. Donut's eyes didn't move from Simmons. They looked unfocused, like he was seeing something else. “Donut! Do something!”

“Grif, I—"

"I don't know what to do... There has to be something! There can't... there can't just... help him! There has to be a way! There's no way he can just—"

"G-Grif..." Simmons rasped.

"Simmons! Hold on, man! Don't... don't die..." Grif pleaded. Simmons stared up at him, eyes squinting slightly. His face was still twisted in pain, but he seemed to be bringing Grif into focus. He looked like he was fighting to say something.

“Don't...” Simmons mouthed something, clearly convinced he was making words. But only one more word came out. “Fatass...”

“...You're fine. You're fine, if you can make jokes, you're fine!” Grif said desperately. “Come on, stay awake… please...” He tried to hold Simmons together, but big, mushy globs just kept flowing past his fingers.

Simmons let out another noise that might have been an attempt at words. Then he stopped trying to talk. He stopped breathing.

"Simmons? Simmons?! I said stay awake!" Grif shook him desperately, but Simmons' head just lolled around lifelessly. "Stay with me, Simmons! Stay with me! Simmons! ...Simmons?"

 

* * *

 

Donut had only been a couple of minutes behind. He still couldn't run. He could move without falling over, but he was still slow. Considering that, being a couple of minutes behind wasn't so bad.

But he was too late.

Now all he could do was numbly watch as Grif tried to stop Simmons' innards from falling out, still insisting that he wasn't going to die. But Donut knew. He knew the moment he saw Simmons that there was no saving him. It was too much like Henderson. He saw Henderson, and then he blinked and it was Simmons, and that was real and that was worse—

Donut's eyes moved from that to the Red Zealot, who was sprawled on the ground with a shiv sticking out of his chest. He was moving slightly, but in the twitchy way that a dying goldfish does. He looked from that to Wyoming, who was standing there and watching O'Malley and Lopez struggle. One hand pressed to his mouth, looking irritated and impatient, but also a little amused. And finally, he looked at Lopez and O'Malley. Lopez was punching every inch of O'Malley he could reach, trying whenever he could to grab O'Malley's screwdriver off him. O'Malley looked like he was just trying to get away.

Donut was broken out of his trance by a clinking sound. Lopez had gotten O'Malley on the ground and his hands around the man's throat. As Lopez tried to throttle him, he shook O'Malley enough for something to come tumbling out of his pocket, making the clinking sound. Immediately, Wyoming lunged forward and grabbed the fallen item. Keys.

"Thanks very much for allowing me to go ahead! If you can catch up, old chap, you're welcome to join me!" Wyoming said cheerfully. Then he bolted.

O'Malley snarled. It might have been intended as a coherent sentence, but Lopez still had his hands around his throat. He stabbed at Lopez with the screwdriver, hitting him in the shoulder. It was enough to make Lopez let go of him.

Why would O'Malley have keys? Only the guards—it clicked. He was trying to escape. That's where he was running. To have the keys now, while all this was going on… it couldn't be coincidence. Was the riot somehow his fault?

"Simmons... Simmons..."

Donut stared back at Simmons. Grif had buried his face in Simmons' blood-soaked jacket, and was cradling him and sobbing and just repeating Simmons' name over and over like it would bring him back.

Something snapped. All the rational thoughts that had been in his head a few moments ago… about why, despite all he'd done, despite the relief it would be, that O'Malley shouldn't be killed… all those thoughts were gone.

He picked up the shiv that had fallen out of the Zealot's hand, still sticky with blood.

“Lopez! Hold him down!” Donut snarled.

“ _With pleasure—shit!_ ”

As Donut advanced on O'Malley, Lopez suddenly backed away, hands moving to cover his eyes. O'Malley had a can of pepper spray in one hand, the same can that was issued to each guard. His other hand still gripped the shiv, and he alternated between pointing that at Lopez and Donut as he slowly backed away.

“You foolish fools! Why are you so busy being foolish that you don't see that I don't want to fight?! Take your useless, pathetic lives with you and be thankful that I'm busy, would you?!”

Donut ignored him. He just charged, swinging the shiv wildly. The air now had the stinging residue left over from the pepper spray. Although not affected to the same degree as Lopez, who was yelling and trying to get the horrible stuff out of his eyes, neither Donut or O'Malley was unaffected.

Donut felt the searing burn hit his eyes, and in that moment of confusion charged directly into O'Malley, who was pointing his shiv the wrong way in his own blind confusion. They both topped to the ground in a heap, struggling to get the upper hand and unable to see if they were succeeding.

The fight was short and messy. Donut felt something slice his side, but not deep enough. He blinked furiously through the burning feeling in his eyes, and plunged the shiv wherever he could see movement. He missed. He missed again.

The third time, O'Malley caught his wrist. The can of pepper spray he'd been holding went rolling off across the floor, as O'Malley struggled to stop Donut from stabbing him.

“So you do have what it takes, do you?” O'Malley breathed. “Whatever happened to self-defence, hm?”

Donut's blows were erratic and wild, and the words didn't have an immediate effect, until he forced the shiv down and the tip of it slid into O'Malley's flesh with a familiar squelching sensation—

Self-defence. Maine's horrible, gutteral scream when Donut buried a kitchen knife in his throat.

Donut faltered.

O'Malley kicked him square in the chest. His foot dug into the fresh scars from his last attack, but the pain was distant, overwhelmed by anger and adrenaline. But it grew stronger and stronger as O'Malley lashed out, targeting them on purpose because who would know where the wounds were better than he?

A hand locked around his throat, shoving him down. A knee pressing down on the arm that held the shiv. Donut was pinned.

“And here I thought you were going somewhere with that,” O'Malley said coldly. “Pathetic, pastry. Pa—“

He cut off as his head jerked back. Lopez, eyes screwed shut from the pepper spray that had scalded them, gripped onto O'Malley's hair and yanked him back, pulling him free from Donut and slamming him against the ground. Donut got to his feet and, ignoring the ache around his scars, moved over and dug a knee into O'Malley's stomach before putting the shiv at his throat.

The moment he felt that, O'Malley went still. There was a moment of silence, except for harsh breaths. O'Malley's eyes flickered down to the shiv touching his throat, then looked up. Meeting Donut's eyes. O'Malley shut his eyes slowly and let go of the screwdriver, allowing it to clatter on the stone floor.

“I suppose anyone who gets beaten by a pastry and some hair-pulling doesn't deserve an interesting death,” O'Malley sighed. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Donut's eyes narrowed. “That's it? 'Go ahead?'”

“I'm hardly in a position to fight it.” O'Malley opened his eyes and gave Donut a twisted, bitter grin. “Or would you like me to struggle so you can pretend it's self-defence? Would you like me to do that, so you can pretend your hands are clean?” O'Malley tilted his head up a little, exposing his throat even more. “Because I'm not going to. If you must murder me, you will do it in cold blood.”

“ _Kill him_ ,” Lopez growled.

Donut didn't move. He stared down at O'Malley, who observed him with that sick grin. For a moment, he saw Maine. He saw Maine and remembered 'what if.'

Then he looked over his shoulder at the blood soaking the floor. At Grif, still cradling Simmons to his chest, the rest of the world dead to him.

The world would be better off without O'Malley in it. Even if Donut had to ruin his conscience to do it.

The shiv sunk a little into O'Malley's throat, red welling up and dripping to the side, onto the stone floor. O'Malley's grin got a little bigger.

A light shone on Donut, and a voice yelled out.

“Put it down, Donut!”

Donut looked at the light. Squinting through the brightness, he could see North. One hand holding the flashlight. The other hand was stretched out, like a zookeeper trying to calm a deranged animal.

“Put the weapon down, Donut,” North said gently, approaching very slowly. The noises of the riot were fading. The situation was calming.

Donut didn't lower the weapon. He just stared back at North. His knee dug deeper into O'Malley's chest.

“Come on, Donut. It's not worth the trouble you'll be in.”

For one moment, the urge to ignore North and sink the blade into O'Malley's throat was overpowering. Donut looked down at that deranged grin, hands shaking. Then he lifted the shiv, and threw it away.

“That's right. Come on, Donut.”

Already another chain of what ifs had settled in Donut's mind. This time, the complete opposite of the ones that came to mind when he thought of Maine.

And he felt just as much regret.

 

* * *

 

Wyoming kept running. The voices and yelling soon faded behind him, although they didn't go entirely silent. He could still hear faint screams and yells. From the yard, he could hear the occasional gunshot.

He reached the visitor's room and unlocked the door, entering the room where the visitors and the inmates conversed with a sheet of glass between them. Right at the end of this room was a door that led past the glass, so that guards could pass through. Wyoming knew where to go. The doors that would be openable in a blackout, lest they lock the staff in and keep those who could fix it out.

It wasn't a visitor's day, so there was no-one there. There was no reason why there would be. Wyoming kept running. If this was anything like the prison he'd once worked at, then he'd be able to reach some form of exit through here.

And he did. He pushed open a final door and exited into a parking lot. For the first time in over forty years, he saw the outside of the walls. He stood there for just a moment, overwhelmed by the sight. All he had to do now was get as far away as fast as possible. Considering the average intelligence of the staff, one of them had probably left the keys in the–

A gunshot rang out.

Wyoming never even had a chance to finish that thought.

Flowers lowered his gun, staring out through the window of the booth that controlled the boom-gate. Slowly, he left the booth and approached Wyoming, who had fallen backwards, landing on the threshold of the prison.

“Reggie, Reggie, Reggie.”

Flowers crouched next to him, examining the body. A bullet right through the head, the same as anyone else who took a step out of the prison without his permission.

“You really think you could have spread your intent to so many people, and that I wouldn't have heard a whisper?” Flowers asked the body. “That inside knowledge makes you a little bit predictable, if you'll pardon the harsh criticism.” He prodded the body with his foot, just to make sure, before sighing. “And your goods were so good for inmate morale. How selfish can you get?”

 

* * *

 

Sarge stared out over the cafeteria. The entire room was a mess. Wherever you looked, there were injured inmates. Some had got off lucky, with just bruises or small cuts. Then there were the ones who'd been more severely slashed up.

And, of course, there were bodies. There was a large amount of blood on the floor, mixed in with the spilt food.

All in all, this inspection couldn't have gone much worse.

Vic stood next to him, looking rather bemused. His suit was splattered with mystery meat stew.

"Dude," he said. "Duuuuuude."

"This isn't a normal occurrence!" Sarge rubbed the back of his head, still staring. "Great Caesar's Toast, what a calamity.”

The guards were ordering the inmates to get in line, trying to separate the seriously injured from the merely bruised. More emergency lights had been brought in, but all the guards still had their flashlights out.

"I told you, man, you gotta check the wires. If there ain't no spark... well, there ain't no spark. Know what I mean?" Vic said.

"I did get a guy to look at the wires! This was sabotage!" Sarge snapped. “Flowers caught a man trying to escape—it's been dealt with—and I sent him to go have a look at the electrical room. We'll get to the bottom of what no-good dirtbag did this.”

"Dude. I gotta tell you now. The brass ain't gonna like this," Vic said. "Chairman's gonna be flipping a lid. Gonna cook up an anger pancake. You follow?"

"Unfortunately, I do. We'll talk about this once all the scumbags are sorted out."

"Sarge!" North called out from the cafeteria door. "We have a problem here. It's bloody and I, uh... I can't get Grif to move."

"Of course he won't move, that lazy, no-good…"

 

* * *

 

Donut wasn't sure how he was holding himself together. Perhaps just out of the knowledge that one of them had to, and it certainly wasn't going to be Grif.

He had a hand on Grif's shoulder, but his eyes were closed. Donut didn't want to look down. Didn't want to see Simmons' blank, unseeing eyes.

“Grif. We have to… we have to move,” Donut said quietly. His voice was tired and watery. He felt a little woozy, probably because his side was bleeding sluggishly from where O'Malley has slashed him. He and Grif were the only two left. O'Malley had been dragged off immediately, since he was supposed to be in the infirmary. Lopez had been guided out afterwards, reliant on North to find the cafeteria because the pepper spray was still affecting his eyes.

But Grif wouldn't budge. He still had his face buried in Simmons' shoulder, babbling at the corpse like he could still hear him.

"Grif, you... you can't do anything for him..."

"Why's it taking you so long just to drag that slacker out? I could do the—Satan's bunions, I think I just had a war flashback. Not the good kind, either." Sarge appeared, shining his flashlight over the mess. “What's the hold-up, what's—oh.”

“This shouldn't have happened...” Grif's voice was muffled. “This shouldn't have happened!”

“On your feet, dirtbag!” Sarge stooped, grabbed Grif by the collar and tried to yank him up, away from Simmons. “Crying won't fix anything, soldier!”

“And where the fuck were you?” Grif abruptly snapped, pulling away from Sarge and staring up at him with the most venomous glare Donut had ever seen. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“Come again?”

“Why couldn't you just… do your fucking job properly, Sarge?! If you'd done that, this wouldn't have… it… Simmons...”

“You questioning how I run this place, inmate?”

Sarge's hand was a little too close to his own nightstick. Donut quickly moved between Sarge and Grif.

“Sarge, don't! Just… just don't, alright?”

Sarge looked at Donut, then glanced down at Grif and sighed before looking away. “Fine, Princess. But you better get him to the cafeteria in double time, or I'm gonna play a game of Whack-A-Grif.”

“Fine. Fine, just...” Donut tailed off before putting his hand back on Grif's back. “Grif?”

Grif didn't respond. He'd gone back to cradling Simmons' body.

“I'm sorry, Grif. But you know… you know that...” Donut shut his eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths and immediately regretting it as the smell of blood filled his nostrils. “He's gone, Grif. You know that. And getting yourself knocked out by Sarge won't… won't help Simmons any. Please, Grif.”

Grif grasped Simmons' hand tightly for a moment, staring at Simmons' face like he was still hoping for Simmons to blink and sit up. Like this was just some kind of fakeout. When no movement happened, Grif let go of Simmons' hand and slowly climbed to his feet. His ability to move seemed to end there, but he let Donut guide him towards the cafeteria and away from Simmons.

Entering the cafeteria didn't feel real. It was like something out of a dream. Or rather a fucked up nightmare. It was hard to believe that, half an hour ago, it had been neat, tidy and peaceful. That half an hour ago the biggest struggle had been the argument about wings or jetpacks. Most of the inmates were gathered at one side of the room, so Donut headed that way, half-pushing Grif along. When they got nearer, however, York stopped them.

“Donut? You're bleeding.”

“I'm fine,” Donut said, tightening his grip on Grif's arm.

“No, seriously, you're bleeding a lot. Look, we're trying to sort out who's injured and who isn't. Anyone with more than a few scrapes goes over there.” York jammed a thumb in the direction of a smaller, roughed-up group of inmates. “So we can start sorting out who needs a hospital and who Sheila can patch up. Go over there, okay?”

“Fine, just… let me help Grif for a moment.”

“Don't take too long.”

Donut guided Grif over to the uninjured inmates. “Sorry, Grif. I'll be back as soon as possible.”

Grif didn't reply. He didn't seem to be paying attention to his surroundings. Donut turned around and walked over to where the injured inmates were gathering.

He found Caboose there. His shoulder was soaked red. It looked like one of the zealots had slashed him. Caboose was frowning at the floor, but the moment he saw Donut his face lit up.

“Honeybun! You're okay!” He jumped to his feet and hugged Donut tightly, but letting go when Donut let out a little hiss of pain. “Oh no, you are hurt! I will help you.”

“It's alright, Caboose. Pay attention to your own injuries, come on,” Donut said quietly. Caboose looked over at his own shoulder.

“Oh. Yes. Okay.” Caboose sat down again. Donut sat next to him.

“The zealots?”

“Yes. But I did not kill anyone. I… I really did not kill anyone!” Caboose smiled brightly at him. “I broke one of their noses, but they will all be okay.”

“I… I see.”

“Yes. You can see. Not like Tucker.”

“...Wait, what?”

“He has no eyes. Someone got something sharp and...” Caboose motioned around his eyes before pointing. “See?”

Church and Tucker were sitting a bit further away. Tucker's eyes were covered by a blood-stained jacket, and Church had a hand on his shoulder. Church glanced up for a moment to see Donut staring at him, and a hint of what might have been relief crossed his face before he returned his attention to Tucker.

“Jesus.”

“Yes.” Caboose looked at Donut for a couple of moments londer, then frowned. “You are… you are sad.” He looked around his room and his eyes landed on Grif. Then he looked around some more. “Grif is by himself?”

“Yeah...”

“But Grif is never without… Oh. Ohhh.” It was clear from Caboose's quiet, solemn tone that he'd caught on quickly. Donut was thankful for that. He couldn't handle recounting everything right now.

Donut had been holding himself together mostly for Grif's sake. Now that he didn't have to do that, he buried his face in Caboose's uninjured shoulder. He found that he was too tired to cry.

 

* * *

 

A few minutes after Vic decided to walk around the room, checking how the guards were handling the crisis, Flowers walked into the cafeteria and headed straight for Sarge. He was dragging Andy along by his collar.

"Hey! Hey! I said I'd follow! Let go of my collar, buttnugget!" Andy yelled. His hands were severely burned.

"Here's the problem. It seems like he blew out our electricity," Flowers said calmly.

"What the—how in blazes did he get into the engine room?!" Sarge roared.

"I think I might have the answer to that. Someone attempted to escape. Wyoming."

"Oh, that crafty son of a bitch."

“Well-organized, too. I'd look for anyone who's wearing one of these.” Flowers grabbed Andy's wrist and showed it to Sarge. A colourful two-dollar plastic watch was decorating it. “One was on Wyoming, too. He also had these.” Flowers dangled a set of keys in front of Sarge's face with his free hand. “Either these were taken from a guard or given to Wyoming by a crooked one. He let young Andy here into the engine room and made an educated guess—presumably from his prior guard experience—at where the clearest exit would be. All the other guards were either distracted by the cafeteria or by the zealots who were setting off flour bombs in the yard. Incredibly elaborate shenanigans.”

Sarge took the keys off Flowers and examined them for a moment before raising his voice.

"York!"

York appeared a few seconds later. "Yes?"

"Did you leave your keys around again?!"

"No. I don't... ah? Can I see those?" Sarge handed the keys over. York only had to look at them for a couple of moments. "These belong to Wash."

“You can tell?”

York separated a couple of keys on the ring before holding them up. “These are for the temporary infirmary and the regular one. The guards have the keys to the main infirmary, but the temporary one was only given to Wash and Sheila, and Sheila wouldn't have the rest of these.”

"Okay, how much trouble am I in?" Andy asked. "It's a lot, right? I admit, I fucked up. But I was blackmailed and threatened. Threatened! I mean, you don't stand against guys like that. Seriously, Wyoming is—"

"Was," corrected Flowers.

"Was one of the most powerful inmates in this place! Add in that crazy flag guy and that red-haired psychopath..."

"O'Malley?" York looked up. "Wasn't he in the temporary infirmary?"

"He was. Seemed he also escaped. Tex has him on a timeout in the corner over there," Flowers said, gesturing at the corner. “They found a can of pepper spray on the floor near him. Perhaps he ambushed a guard.”

"This is completely undignified!" they heard O'Malley complain loudly, from where he was sitting and facing the wall.

"Quiet," Tex said coldly.

York looked down at the keys for a couple more moments before saying, "Permission to check the rest of the prison for inmates wandering around?"

"Permission granted."

"Thanks." York left the cafeteria quickly.

"By the way, can I transfer to another prison?" Andy asked, glancing around. He was getting visibly more nervous by the second, as he absorbed more and more of the carnage. "I, uh… I don't think the guys are gonna be too happy with me."

"Funny time to be asking for a favour, isn't it?" Flowers said amiably. He gave Andy a grin that didn't reach his eyes. “I think we'll keep you right here. After all, you're such a good soccer player. I'm sure the rest of the inmates… and the guards… wouldn't want to lose such talent.”

 

* * *

 

Wash could hear growling.

He couldn't just look over at the corner to assure himself that it was all in his head, because he couldn't see the corner. He could convince himself it was all in his head—and it was at times like this when he wanted to just believe he was 'mad'—but all he knew was it was dark and any noises he could hear were distant.

The fire had receded from his eyes somewhat. Maybe he would have been able to see. Maybe his eyes were still sealed shut by the pepper spray. He couldn't tell, because nothing got brighter or dimmer. It was all just dark.

He thought he heard gunshots. Was that in his head, too?

Once he'd stopped coughing he'd called out to see if anyone was nearby. As the darkness went on, he shouted. Then screamed. He'd started pleading with the door and whoever was beyond the door to let him out. But no-one had come.

No surprise there.

He thought he could open his eyes again. Did that mean the whole prison was dark? Was he even still in the prison? All he could see was... well, that was just it. He couldn't see anything. For all he knew, he could really be back in that basement. He'd never really seen the basement, either. The lights had always been off…

“Hey… hey!” Wash's voice was croaky. He'd spent too long screaming. Now he could barely make noise. “Help! Help me! Please… please just let me out...”

“ _How does it feel? I've never let a friend or co-worker die. I'm curious as to what that feels like.”_

“ _I didn't—“_

“ _Don't lie, Wash.”_

He remembered that voice. Gamma. His memories were so loud. He could hear it as if it was happening right then. As if Gamma was standing there, talking in his odd monotone, while the Meta paced the room and let out an occasional snarl.

“ _All you had to do was make one little warning, Wash. And you couldn't even do that. You saw Delta coming and you let her die. So, tell me. How does it feel?_ ”

Wash clasped his hands over his ears, but that did no good. How could it? It wasn't his ears that were the problem.

His fingers, the ones that O'Malley had ripped the nails from, tingled. His gums ached. Wash raised a hand to his mouth and felt the teeth there. False teeth. The torture had already happened. If it was still ongoing, he would just feel bloody gums. It was over. That was a comfort. Slightly.

He thought he heard something. Footsteps and his own name. But it was drowned out by another voice. A voice that was laughing. One that had to be a memory but didn't sound familiar at all. Just… laughter. Mad laughter. Not O'Malley's sadistic chuckling. Laughter that sounded more like screaming than actual amusement.

Why didn't he recognise that laugh? Who laughed like that?

“ _I told you! I told you that you couldn't trick me. I told you! I told you!_ ”

Wash heard a door swing open. Was it Omega or Gamma? The Meta? Someone bored and ready to slice him open some more?

“ _I win! I win. I win..._ ”

“Wash?”

There was a sudden burst of light and someone grabbed his shoulder. Wash flipped out.

“Get away! Get away!” He jerked his elbow back, hitting whoever was behind him before scrambling away. “I'm not going to play your stupid game, fuck off, I don't… I don't know anything!”

“Jesus, Wash! That hurt! And what are you talking about?”

That wasn't O'Malley.

The burst of light. It had been a flashlight. York was point it at him and rubbing his stomach where Wash had hit him.

“York?”

“Uh, yeah. Who did you think it was?” York walked towards him and handed him the flashlight. “Here. Thought you might need that. Guess I showed up a bit late.”

“Uh. Uhhh… no. This is good.” Wash clung to the flashlight like a drowning man clinging to a raft. “Um. Yeah.”

York stared at him for a few moments before gesturing to the door. "Come on. The electricity in the prison is out. Andy blew up something, I think."

"Okay."

Wash followed York in silence for a few minutes. The memories were fading again. They weren't so sharp and loud. Some of them he was already having trouble recalling. And he was fine with that.

"York?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you turn up? We aren't exactly on the best terms right now."

"Look, I've seen you freak out before," York said flatly. "I wasn't going to leave you locked up with something you're that afraid of." York turned around and met Wash's gaze for a moment. "That's what you would have done."

Wash couldn't really think of an answer to that.

Eventually, they reached the cafeteria. Wash had seen a lot of blood and death in his lifetime, but even considering that… he had to stop for a moment. It seemed there was red everywhere he looked.

He wasn't surprised O'Malley had caused more trouble. But on this scale?

As he followed York, almost tripping over a body—that inmate with the damaged hands, his throat slashed to ribbons—he reached out and touched York's shoulder lightly.

“York? I… I need to borrow your phone.”

“Is this really the time, Wash?”

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.” Wash met York's gaze squarely. “I need to make a call. I think it might stop this from happening again.”

York frowned, looking at Miller's body as he did so. “So cryptic. ...But anything's worth a shot.” He removed his phone from his pocket and handed it to Wash. “You really need your own phone, though.”

Wash shrugged, not bothering to give his usual rebuttal about how York was the only person he talked to outside of work. “I'll be just outside the cafeteria.”

“Don't take too long. Sarge wants answers about what happened.”

“Okay, okay...”

He left the cafeteria, thinking it would be cleaner out there. It wasn't. The moment he entered the corridor, a smell similar to that of the infirmary after Henderson's death hit his nostrils. The way the blood stained the ground indicated that the bodies had been dragged away, but there was too much of it for whoever it had been to have survived.

Wash had to stop and steel himself. But at the same time, it made him more sure that he had to make this call, and not drop it just after a few questions. This had all started when Doc had left. Wash wasn't sure why. But he had a feeling that Doc was the only person who could have stopped it.

Doc answered almost immediately. Like he'd been standing there with his phone in his hand, waiting.

“...Hello?”

“Did you know? Did you know about this, too?”

“Know about what? What...” There was a shaky breath from Doc's end. “Who got hurt?”

“I don't know, Doc. But I'm getting the sense it'd be easier to list who didn't get hurt.”

“What? What happened?”

Wash didn't answer. Instead, he looked at the blood soaking the floor and took a photo, feeling disgust at himself even as he did so. Felt wrong to take pictures. But they'd always said that a picture was a thousand words, and god knows he didn't have the energy to explain everything. He leaned back a little into the cafeteria and, hoping no-one was watching, took a picture of the chaos in there, too. They were badly lit photos, but it'd be enough.

He sent them, he put the phone back to his ear and waited.

Doc was dead silent. Too silent to have not seen what Wash sent. A full two minutes of silence passed before Wash finally broke it.

“Doc. This has gone too far. I don't know why this is all happening. But it started when you left. If you know how to make this stop? Then you need to.”

Another minute of full silence. Just as Wash had been able to hang up, he heard Doc let out a long, shuddering breath. When he spoke, his voice was dull and resigned.

“What do I have to do?”


	24. Chapter Eighteen: Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone tries to deal with what happened. Most of them don't do well.

The rest of the day was muddled, and no-one involved would ever really remember the details.

People got sent to the infirmary and came back, stitched up by Sheila or by Wash. It was a mark of how bad things were that he didn't complain about being temporarily on doctor duty again. Anyone injured too badly for the infirmary got sent to the hospital. Some returned. Some didn't. There were bodies. Several inmates and a couple of guards.

Electricians were called in to fix the damage Andy had done. Luckily, whatever Andy had blown up had been easily fixed, and the electricity was on again by the end of the day. Uninjured inmates and some of the guards were put to work cleaning up the cafeteria and the area outside it. The inmates not involved in doing so were locked in their cells. Once the prison was clean, the inmates who'd helped were put in their cells, too.

The next day was a lockdown as last minute work was done. Everyone confined to their separate cells.

There was little conversation among most. No-one was really in the mood.

Church and Tucker were the only ones talking regularly. Not that they were doing a good job at it. The conversation was awkward and stilted. But if Church fell silent for too long, Tucker would bring up something else. He wouldn't let the silence sit for longer than a minute or so. The few times he did, he'd start pacing. Sometimes he'd touch the pictures on the wall, tilting his head a little as if, with the right light, somehow he'd be able to see them through the bandages.

Caboose was bouncing on his feet a lot. Pacing and unable to stay still. Often, he would press his face against the bars, trying to see further down into Donut's cell, and upon failing to do so would return to pacing. He occasionally glanced at the stuffed pigeon gathering dust on his floor. After a few glances at it, he gingerly picked it up before putting it in his footlocker where he couldn't see it.

Donut sat on the floor of his cell, back against the wall. In his hands, he held the shiv that Tucker had given him weeks ago. He turned it over in his hands, staring down at it without really seeing it. Occasionally, he rubbed the scars that O'Malley had left on him around a month ago. Only a month?

Grif slept in. When he woke up, tired and lagging, he directed conversation in the direction of Simmons' cell for a minute before remembering what had happened the previous day. Afterwards, he shut down and didn't speak again.

The day passed. The next day, they would be allowed to leave their cells again. And everything would return to normal.

In theory.

 

* * *

 

Sarge poured out another glass of whiskey and quickly knocked it back before returning to staring at the wall of war memorabilia that he'd always kept in the office. Memories of much better times.

The day he'd been kicked out of the army had been one of the most depressing days of his life. And despite the fact that being the warden was a lot less exciting and badass than being a sergeant in the army, he was having a strong, depressing feeling of deja vu right now.

Sarge stared bitterly at the letter that he was currently using as a coaster.

>  
> 
> _To the Warden of Valhalla Penitentiary,_
> 
>  
> 
> _It only took a glance at the notes that the inspector made to see that the prison you are meant to be keeping order of is quickly escalating into anarchy. Riots with distressingly high amounts of death and serious injuries, explosions wreaking havoc, inmates that should be either locked up in SHU or at the very least getting some kind of therapy are wandering free through the prison and many a rumour about 'lethal macaroni' was passed on by the people that Inspector Vickory talked to._
> 
> _The amount of negligence being committed is at criminal levels. However, factoring in your age and the relative order of the prison until recent times, we have decided to blame your negligence on absent-mindedness due to old age. I think that will be more convenient for all involved._
> 
> _However, I am forced to relieve you of your position as warden. You will be dismissed from your job as soon as we can find a sufficient person to replace you._
> 
>  
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Chairman Malcom Hargrove._

 

The letter was currently marked in damp rings from Sarge's glass. Sarge started topping up his whiskey—and to be honest, he could really go for something else right now, like a pina colada. Those always cheered him up.

Then again, it would take a damn lot to cheer him up right now.

Sarge scowled at the letter before pulling out a blank piece of paper and writing his reply.

 

> _Dear Chairman,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Up yours._
> 
>  
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Warden Sarge Sargington._

 

With that brusque reply finished, he went back to drinking.

 

* * *

 

Flowers was on his break. Well, not really. That had ended five minutes ago.

Currently, however, no-one would question his temporary absence. All the inmates were in their cells and all the guards were, for the most part, checking over the prison for any more damage. Flowers could delay his return long enough to finish his crossword puzzle.

Flowers was sitting in the booth that controlled the boomgate, feet resting up. Chewing on his pencil as he pondered the possible answers. He could normally solve these pretty fast, but he'd spent most of his break combing the paper. Just to check if the riot had been mentioned. It had, after all, been fairly bloody. But not a mention. He supposed the Chairman wouldn't want that kind of publicity.

He heard footsteps nearby. Without looking up, Flowers asked, “What's an eleven-letter word for a weak person?”

“...Excuse me?”

Upon recognising the voice, Flowers looked up and saw Doc. Shifting on his feet, fidgeting with his hands, showing every sign of a man who didn't want to be there.

“Oh, Doc! Sorry, that wasn't meant as a dig at you. I'd never be that cruel.” Flowers looked back down at his crossword for a moment before letting out a little, happy hum. “Milquetoast. That's the word.” He scribbled it in before looking back at Doc, who hadn't moved. “...Weren't you fired?”

“Um. Yes. I was told to come back.”

“I don't believe Sarge authorized that.” Flowers wrote in another answer before eyeing Doc. “I don't know if you've heard, but we're in lockdown right now.”

“I… I heard.”

“I'll tell Sarge you stopped by, but—“

“I can't go.” Doc looked at the ground before looking up again, mouth set. “I… I have to see him. I need my job back.”

“Hmm. That'll be tricky. Dr. Filss is a very competent woman. I'd hate to put her into unemployment. Although I have missed your sunny demeanor.” Flowers tapped his crossword puzzle again. “Eight-letter word for mental imbalance.”

“Ummm… maniacal? Unhinged?” Doc suggested timidly.

The door leading into the prison opened, and Wash stepped out. Upon seeing Doc, he made a beeline for him.

“Oh, speak of the devil!” Flowers said cheerfully.

“I wasn't speaking of—“ Doc mumbled.

“Deranged! Deranged fits,” Flowers interrupted, writing it down. Wash gave him a look that, if Flowers wasn't protected by a shield of positivity, might have made him wilt a bit. Flowers decided to ignore it. After all, if you can't say anything nice… “Something wrong, Wash?”

“I'm here to get Doc.”

“We're in lockdown, Wash.”

“It's fine. Doc's renounced his sympathies for the Blues, so Sarge will consider re-hiring him,” Wash said flatly. “Right, Doc?”

“Um...”

“Ooh. Siding with those Red rascals, are you?” Flowers said cheerfully, putting down his crossword and leaning forward a little to look at Doc. “Well, what's left of them, I suppose. We did have some Red casualties during the riot. It's all very sad.”

Doc went back to looking at his feet. Wash glanced sideways at him before looking back to Flowers.

“Look, I'll keep an eye on him. And if Doc somehow blows something up, you can blame me. Fair?”

“...Fair,” Flowers agreed after a moment of consideration. He held out his hand to solidify this deal with a good old-fashioned warm handshake—preferably one that lasted a few seconds, like all good handshakes should. (There was a similar rule for hugs.) Wash looked at the hand for a moment, then promptly ignored it.

“Haven't got all day, Doc.”

“...Right.”

Wash left and headed back towards the prison, and Doc walked after him. Head down, dragging his feet a little. Flowers waved, then went back to his crossword.

 

* * *

 

“You're later than I thought you'd be. To be honest, I only half-expected you to turn up,” Wash said, once they were inside.

“Well… I… I, um...”

Doc trailed off for a bit. What could he say? That he didn't want more bloodshed to happen? Him retaking his old position would mean killing more people. The only difference was that now he was the lesser of two evils. That the reason he was left was that he'd panicked halfway and ran the complete opposite direction? That he only stopped himself from hiding by looking once more at the pictures Wash had sent him? The pictures that horrified him, but that he refused to delete? A giant, bloody reminder of what O'Malley had done because he left. What he would do again if Doc didn't come back.

But he couldn't say that to Wash. Wash wouldn't care.

“Traffic?” Doc said, after a long pause. “Yeah, there was… there was traffic.”

“You're only a ten minute bus ride away. I saw your address when I was looking up your number. Your street is hobo central.”

“It's not that bad. The rent's really good and some of the homeless people nearby are really nice. Once I helped stitch one up after he got stabbed.”

“Did they die, too?”

Doc flinched a little at Wash's tone, looking down. “I'm not bad with stab wounds.”

“That's not a no, Doc.”

As Doc looked down, he noticed that Wash's hand was resting on his belt. He thought, maybe, that he was keeping his hand near his nightstick. But another glance let him see that Wash was fiddling with a flashlight instead, fingers always near the on switch. Doc supposed, given the blackouts that had happened—the photos had been very dark—that any nervousness was understandable. He knew he wouldn't like to be trapped in the dark. No light, with O'Malley possibly lurking in the shadows…

Doc shivered. Wash glanced back at him, but didn't ask. They arrived at Sarge's office, and Wash pushed open the door. Peeking in behind him, Doc saw Sarge sitting at his desk. Holding a bottle of whiskey, which at this stage he seemed to just be drinking out of rather than using the glass on his desk.

“Jesus Christ,” Wash muttered under his breath, before striding forward. He rapped his knuckles against the desk, provoking a slight jump from Sarge, before gesturing at Doc. “Rehire him.”

Sarge stared blearily at Wash, then at Doc.

“...Didn't I fire you?” he grumbled. His voice was slightly slurred.

“Yes,” Doc said, edging back a little.

“Don't even think about it, Doc,” Wash said. Doc hugged himself a little and shuffled forward again. Wash turned towards Sarge. “Rehire him or I tell Flowers you're drunk on the job.”

“I'm already fired, you nitwit! What are you going to do? Double fire me? Put me on a raft, set me aflame and push me out to sea? Because a viking funeral is already in my will! You'd be playing right into my hands!”

“...What.”

Sarge tipped the bottle back, only to find that it was empty. “Son of a gun! I'm out!” He tossed the bottle into an empty corner, shattering it. Doc jumped a little, hugging himself tighter and watching Sarge for any sign that he might get violent.

“You… seem in a bad mood, maybe I should just…” Doc glanced back at the door, but another glare from Wash kept his feet in place. Sarge gave him a glare before getting to his feet. Despite the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, he was rather steady on his feet. He picked up one of the letters on his desk.

“You know what? I've got things to do. Things to mail. You can do whatever you want. You want a job here? You fill out the damn paperwork yourself. The next warden can deal with you and your blue-loving ways, Doc.”

He left the room, wavering ever so slightly. Wash watched him go with a disgusted expression before shrugging.

“I suppose that makes this easier,” Wash said.

He grasped Doc's arm, ignoring that Doc completely froze when he did so (O'Malley flickered through his mind, grinning, grabbing, tearing) and steered him forward, pushing him into a seat before going around the desk and sitting in the seat Sarge had just vacated. He started to rifle through the drawers.

“You don't have my old personnel file?” Doc asked.

“Sarge asked me to burn it when I was finding your address.”

“...That sounds illegal.”

“Probably,” Wash agreed. “But, really… even when Vic was here examining us he wasn't really looking at the problems. Nothing would have happened if a riot didn't explode under his nose. The Chairman only cares that everything looks normal on a surface level. The inside can be rotten to the core as long as no-one hears about it.”

Doc squinted a little at him, but didn't say anything. He wasn't sure if the fact that the staff was as corrupt as the inmates was discomforting or not. At least it meant maybe he wasn't the… no, cross that out, none of them could have caused as much damage as him.

“Ah. Found it.” Wash pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of paper from the depths of Sarge's desk and pushed it towards Doc. “You know the details of your own job, right?”

“Yes...”

“I guess you'll share the job with Sheila. Maybe you'll learn something.”

Doc sighed. “Probably not. It… it didn't work for me in college.”

Wash shrugged. “Don't care. Long as it calms things down. Just sign it so I can get back to work.” He looked down into Sarge's drawer again, rummaging a bit more out of curiosity. “Why are there animal crackers in here?”

Doc didn't answer. He stared at the form. His hand closed around a pen, but he didn't move to write. He just absently clicked the pen as he stared down.

“Is this the only way?” he asked quietly.

“How should I know? You left and everything exploded. I don't know why. You can calm things down, can't you? Preferably without drugging the inmates, Sheila probably won't let you do that again. And she's a tank so I wouldn't want to disagree with her.”

“...Maybe I can. I want to help. I do. I just… I'm afraid of how much it'll cost. He said… he said I'm the biggest murderer in this prison, Wash.” Doc's voice cracked a little, and he shut his eyes for a moment. Willing O'Malley's taunts, his laughter, out of his head. Just for a moment. “I can't be that again. I sign this and I'm signing the death sentence of whoever ends up in my care, Wash.”

But if he didn't, he was signing a death sentence for several inmates anyway. As many as it took for O'Malley to give up or find him. And he'd barely been gone a month. How many more would die before O'Malley got what he want?

He'd make it worse either way. Maybe it'd be better if he signed it, went up to the infirmary and just swallowed the contents of the first jar of medication he saw. O'Malley would have nothing to chase and he'd never be able to hurt anyone again. Being dead wouldn't be great—maybe Doc didn't have much going for him, but he still got to experience the little things like the sun on his face and a good mug of herbal tea, and that was something—but it wasn't as if he was of any use. It wasn't as if anyone would notice. Except maybe O'Malley.

And wasn't that just one of the most depressing realizations of his life?

He didn't expect much from Wash. Maybe another 'just shut up and sign it' or another insult. He didn't get any reply back immediately. When he looked up, he saw that Wash was reading a piece of alcohol-stained paper that had been left on Sarge's desk.

“...A therapist is a kind of doctor,” Wash said absently.

“What?”

“A therapist.” Wash pushed the stained piece of paper towards Doc and tapped part of the letter. “Look. The Chairman's recommending we hire a therapist. You probably won't kill anyone doing that. Not like a therapist is a real doctor, anyway.”

“That's rude,” Doc said. Even so, his mind was suddenly whirring at the thought. He clicked the pen a few more times, rocking back a little.

A therapist. A therapist didn't use stitches. If Sheila was still handling the medication, all he'd have would be words. He knew words could hurt—'the biggest murderer in this prison,' those words had hurt more than O'Malley's hands ever had—but maybe… maybe…

Maybe this was a solution. Maybe it was a second chance to help people. To start to make up for all the damage he'd already done.

“I… I think I could do that.”

“And it'll stop O'Malley from rampaging?”

“Maybe. Maybe...”

Wash waved his hand at the form. “Then fill it out.”

Doc only hesitated for one more second. Two more pen clicks. Then he signed it. And, for the first time in months, a small smile crossed his face.

It couldn't hurt more than what he'd already done.

 

* * *

 

The first thing that Donut did when the lockdown ended and the cells opened was head right to Grif's cell.

It was, in all honesty, a reluctant duty. Donut normally liked comforting people. He liked being there for them. He liked hugs and little cakes and tea and soft, soothing things that made people feel a little better. He liked talking about problems rather than bottling them up.

But he didn't want to deal with this. It meant admitting Simmons was gone.

Donut had only felt grief—the kind of grief that only came with the death of someone you cared about—once before, at least as far as he could remember. That had been Maine, and that had been mixed in with a lot of other conflicting feelings. Anger, fear and relief had submerged the grief until it wasn't so strong. He'd lost his birth parents, but he didn't really remember that. Now, for Simmons—one of his first friends in this place—it was fresh and painful, and every time Donut glanced in the direction of Simmons' too-empty cell he felt a pang for what should be there.

But he couldn't grieve. Because however he was doing, Grif would be doing worse. And Donut had to take care of him. There wasn't anyone else now. Church or Tucker? Even if they didn't have their own injuries to deal with, why would they? Caboose… Caboose might try, but sometimes it was hard to tell what he understood and what he didn't, and Donut wasn't sure how Grif would handle Caboose right now.

So it was up to him. Like after the riot, he had to push it down. Push it down and pretend it wasn't there until… until… until some other time.

“Grif?” Donut called softly as he reached the cell. He could see a huddled lump of sheets on the bed. “Grif? It's breakfast time in a minute, come on.”

The lump of sheets didn't move.

“Grif? You awake?”

Donut didn't get a response, but he noticed in the silence that Grif's breathing wasn't deep and steady enough for sleep.

“Come on. You know how the guards get. You can… you can sleep after lunch?”

This time, there was a slight noise. A bitter, angry snort. The bundle of sheets stirred, and Grif stuck his head out. He looked a mess. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and it didn't look like he'd slept all night. He glared at Donut. It might have been venomous if he didn't look so tired.

“The guards can get fucked. What can they even do to me?” He curled up a little more. “Leave me alone.”

“It's breakfast time, Grif.”

“I heard you the first time. Leave me alone.”

“Grif—“

“Are you deaf? Did someone rip off your other ear? Fuck. Off.” Grif pulled his sheets back over his head and turned over so he was facing the wall.

Donut edged closer for a moment, fidgeting with his hands. Looking down, he noticed there were still reddish-brown stains underneath some of his fingernails from the blood that had been on the zealot's shiv. A powerful wave of revulsion surged through his stomach as he realised that blood would have come from Simmons. He shook, and shut his eyes.

Not now. Don't lose it now.

He crossed his arms to try and hide the trembling.

“Okay. But… but I'll be nearby. If… if you need anything.”

Grif didn't respond. Donut left the cell. But he didn't go far. Just settled down nearby, in case Grif changed his mind. He was afraid of what might happen if Grif was left alone.

 

* * *

 

The hospital had done what they could, but there was no saving his eyes. It was very hard to deny that he was blind when a doctor was telling him, repeatedly, how little he was going to see in the future.

So that was a huge downer. But even so, Tucker was determined to find the upside to this. As tiny as it might be.

“I should get a bandana or something and tie it around my eyes. Man, I'd be like Neo in the last Matrix movie.” Tucker made a kung fu gesture. “Like, I'd be able to see machines and shit without my eyes. And do kung fu. Hwaaaah!”

“Tucker, you'd look like an idiot.”

“I'm the One, Church.”

“Yeah, well, that movie was terrible and Neo fucking died at the end. That's not a great precedent.”

“You are such a buzzkill.”

Tucker could tell that Church was near the entrance to his cell. Sounds felt a lot louder, but maybe it was just because he was focusing on them more. Same as how he was just now noticing how scratchy the blankets were and how cold the floor was if he wasn't wearing shoes.

Tucker also knew that Church was rolling his eyes at him, but that was just intuition. He bounced a little on his cot, hearing the creaking noise of the frame, before talking again.

“You know, if you keep hanging around here Tex'll find you and probably get pissed because… y'know.” Tucker made a throat-slit gesture. “Miller.”

“She'll find me one way or another. Like I've got anywhere to run to,” Church said. “It happens when it happens. What, you want me to leave?”

“Fuck no. Who's going to be my seeing eye dog?”

“Oh, great. So I've been upgraded to your fucking pet labradoodle now?”

“I'm just saying is all.”

Tucker fiddled with the sheets on his bed a bit before looking up. He kept tilting his head. Hoping, perhaps, that if the light hit his face just right it would somehow provide him with sight again, if only for a moment.

“...Church? What am I looking at?”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

“You're facing Junior's drawings,” Church finally said.

“Yeah. I thought so.” Tucker kept trying to squint. It really hurt if he tried on one side, while the other side was just numb to any attempt to move it. No matter how he stared he couldn't catch a glimpse of light or even a little dab of colour. “Fuck, man.”

He tried to sound casual. Like it was a mild inconvenience. Despite his best efforts, his voice shook.

“I can't see them. I'm never going to see them again.”

A cold feeling washed over him, as abrupt and uncomfortable as the time a woman at the bar had, in response to his come-on, thrown a drink in his face.

“I can't watch Junior grow up,” Tucker said. His voice little more than a terrified whisper.

He heard Church shift awkwardly, and then the sounds of his boots scraping along the floor as he walked. Tucker heard him get closer, but was still surprised when a hand lightly grasped his wrist and tugged him to his feet.

“What the fu—“

“This isn't anything gay, relax,” Church said irritably. First time the subject had been broached since they were back on speaking terms. There had just been a mutual unspoken agreement not to talk about it.

Church guided him towards the wall that was decorated with Junior's pictures, then moved Tucker's hand to one of them. Tucker felt the paper under his fingers, and the slight texture of crayon.

“Okay. This picture is of a dog. Brown. White patch over the eye. And I think it's flying,” Church said.

“Oh. Yeah, I know that one!” Tucker smiled in a slightly exasperated way. “That was when Junior's life ambition was to own a puppy. He was, what, four?”

“Mm.” Church moved Tucker's hand again, putting it elsewhere on the wall. “This is… some kind of giant purple dildo.”

“That's a dinosaur, dude.” Tucker could see that one clearly in his head as well.

“Whatever, it looks like a dildo.”

“It has spikes, Church! What kind of dildos have you been using?”

“Shut up. Alright, now...” Church guided his hand to a third picture. “This one… it's of you, Junior and… I guess his other dad? It's in front—“

“Of a house. The house is blue, the sun's got sunglasses and there's some weird six-legged monstrosity on the lawn that might have been another dog mixed with his later love of weird monsters,” Tucker said. “I remember that one.”

“You remember all of them, don't you?” Church said quietly.

“...Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Then you don't have to see them to look at them.”

Church was right. After five years of staring at this wall Tucker had the entire layout ingrained into his mind.

“And Junior?” Tucker asked.

“That's… more complicated, yeah. That sucks. No other way to say that. But it could be worse. You can't see him, sure, but you can still see him. Crap, that's not right. What I mean is… y'know… he's still there and you're still here. He's not, like… just what you can see. You can talk to him and shit. You can still know what he's up to and all the important stuff. And that's more important than physically seeing him.” Church paused, and his next words were tinged with a bit of bitterness. “Sometimes people don't get that lucky.”

“You know...” Tucker said slowly. “That actually makes a bit of sense. For once.”

“Oh come on. You're acting like I normally talk like Caboose.”

Tucker laughed. There was some contemplative silence for a while afterwards, until Tucker noticed that Church hadn't let go of his wrist.

“Uh, dude?”

“Hm?”

“You can let go now.”

There was a pause, before the warmth around Tucker's wrist vanished abruptly as Church let go like he'd been burned.

“Sorry,” Church muttered.

“Whatever, man. No homo.”

 

* * *

 

“Cookie Crisp?”

Donut hadn't moved from his seat on the floor, not too far from Grif's cell. He looked up to see Caboose holding out a bread roll and an orange.

“You did not go to breakfast,” Caboose said. “I brought you food!”

“Oh… thanks, Caboose.” Donut took the roll and took a bite. It was a good roll. Still fluffy on the inside. Pretty rare by the time they got their food that the rolls were still fluffy. Caboose sat down next to him, bouncing a little.

“This is not a good place to sit. The floor is cold.”

“I can't keep watch from my cell.”

“You can stay in my cell. I have a good view. ...It is very sad.” Caboose climbed to his feet again and offered Donut a hand, which he took. After being helped to his feet, Donut let himself be tugged over to Caboose's cell.

Caboose sat down on his cot before arranging Donut effortlessly in his lap, petting his hair absently. This was followed by a rocking movement like someone would do to a baby. It was comforting. Donut didn't say anything for a while. He just settled down, drifting off slightly while surrounded by warmth. But every time he felt himself falling asleep, he'd make himself wake up and continue his watch on Grif's cell.

And even through this, that seething feeling of regret wouldn't leave his stomach.

“I should have killed him.”

Those words were out of Donut's mouth before he could think about whether he should say it or not. He felt the hand stroking his hair pause.

“Killing is bad,” Caboose said plaintively.

“I know. I know it is. Even so. If I'd just been… just been a little faster...” Donut lifted one hand, stretching it out slightly. “He was right there. And he… he deserves to die, and I… I was… am… still so angry… I know murder is wrong, and I know… I know I'd turn the clock back if I could on Maine. But… but I'd turn the clock back on O'Malley, too. Just so I could stab him before North saw me do it.”

Caboose resumed his patting without saying anything else. Donut pressed the side of his face into Caboose's chest, blinking sleepily.

“...What has this place done to me, Caboose?”

After a few long moments, Caboose said, “I do not know what to say. I am a listener.”

Donut didn't quite smile, but his mouth twitched a bit. He patted Caboose's arm. “Well, I appreciate that, too.”

Caboose hugged Donut a little tighter. “Biscotti? If you murder O'Malley, I will still like you just the same. You are still fluffy where it matters.”

“...Thanks, Caboose.”

 

* * *

 

Tex caught up to Church just after lunch, when he was sitting in the yard with Tucker. Tucker, for his part, had found one of the benches and refused to leave it. Since Church didn't want to be an asshole and run away, this meant he was stuck to that bench too. It made him easy to find.

“Church. Over here. Now.”

Tucker turned his head slightly. “I hear Tex.”

“No shit, asshole.”

“She sounds mad. Shield your crotch.”

“What.”

“I'm just saying, it may be a small target but—“

“Tiny,” Tex agreed.

“Oh, that is low,” Church muttered.

“I'm not going to ask again, Church. Over here,” Tex said shortly.

Church raised a hand. “Just a second, okay?” He looked at Tucker. “You'll be fine on your own for a few minutes?”

“I'm not a child, Church. I'm fine,” Tucker said, although there was a note of unease in his voice.

“Alright. Be right back.” Church lightly smacked the back of Tucker's head, earning an annoyed 'hey,' before following Tex away to an empty corner of the yard. From there, they had a good view of the remaining zealots throwing orange juice at the flagpole and wailing at the top of their lungs. Some bizarre funeral for their leader.

Once they were out of earshot of anyone else, Tex rounded on Church. Church was, indeed, seized with the urge to shield his balls, but resisted it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? We had a deal, asswipe,” Tex growled.

“No killing. Yeah, I remember.”

“You cut out a guy's throat! Eye-witnesses, Church! You thought I was just going to ignore it?”

“Tex, Tex! Calm down, jeez!”

“Listen, just because you think murder is dandy—“

“Dandy?”

“Shut up. What the fuck do you have to say for yourself?”

Church paused, then said, “Wait, do I be quiet or talk? That's conflicting—“

“I'll kick you in the balls.”

“Okay, okay, right. Look, I didn't want to kill the guy, Tex. But you saw what he did to Tucker.” Church gestured over at Tucker, who was patting the ground. He seemed to have dropped something and was visibly frustrated by it. “If I'd left them alone, Miller would have killed him. Fuck, he slashed me, too.” Church pulled back his sleeve to show the bandages underneath. “He wasn't some innocent victim, Tex. Miller was a bitch and he wasn't going to stop. It was him or Tucker, and that's a fucking easy decision.”

Tex raised an eyebrow. “And that's all you've got to say about it?”

“Do you want me to make up some other reasons? Look, it won't be a regular thing! I swear on my—“ Church paused. He'd been about to say father's grave, but considering he put him there that probably didn't mean much. “On my mother's grave. It won't happen again, if I can help it.”

Tex tapped her foot against the wall, her frown getting deeper. “That's not good enough, Church. I mean, really. 'If you can help it?' You don't want me going back on my part of the deal, do I?”

“Tex, come on! That's not the same! It won't hurt anyone—”

“Yeah. Won't hurt my family to keep that a secret. Because, wow, what an awful thing that would be. Huh? That right, Church?” Tex asked, her voice low and dangerous.

Church crossed his arms, looking uncomfortable. “That wasn't me, Tex.”

“And yet the secret of who did that is something you've kept.”

“I don't even know his real name, okay? I've told you that!”

“Uh huh, sure. Just saying, we don't always get a choice in what secrets get kept and which ones get loose.” Tex stared him down. “So, really. Why should I keep Eddie a secret?”

“Tex, come on! I'm begging you here!”

“Beg harder.”

“Fuck, this is so not the situation I wanted to beg you in,” Church muttered under his breath. “Fuck, Tex, I don't have anything to offer! I don't care what happens to me. Punish me for that if you really have to. That's fine. Even if you leave me in the shoe with O'Malley, I will accept that. It'll suck, but if that's what it takes... Just… don't rat Eddie out. Please.”

Tex glared at him for one more moment. Then her mouth twitched a little. She covered it with her hand, but almost immediately after her stern look crumbled and she started laughing.

“Oh, man. You are so desperate,” she laughed.

“...What the fuck, Tex! You're not supposed to laugh at that! What are you, a sadist?”

“Yeah. Yeah, well… I was kind of fucking around with you there. Thing is, Church.” Tex shrugged and grinned at him. “I have no idea where your brother is right now.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“...You fucking bitch!” Church yelled. “That was so low. God! You've been holding this over my head for the last five years, and you never even knew—“

“Actually, I was telling the truth back then. I said I don't know where he is 'right now.' I did know then. Specifically...” Tex rapped her knuckles against the wall. “He was in prison. Not this one, obviously, but—“

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait, wait. ...Wait.” Church held out a hand to stop Tex for continuing, staring at her with a squinted, suspicious expression. “...You're not serious.”

“Were you even reading the paper at the time, Church?”

“Fuck no. What good does it do me to know what's happening outside the prison?” Church snapped. “Why didn't you tell me? Wait, scratch that… why the fuck was he in prison?!”

“Was, Church. Was.”

“But why?!”

“Well… five years back, Eddie… he wasn't using the name Eddie, I just recognised his picture… he was caught stealing a bulldozer.”

“...What.”

“I know, right? Apparently he got surprisingly far driving it around. Beats me how you lose track of a stolen bulldozer, though.”

Church couldn't make any comprehensible words for a few seconds. When he managed to speak again, all that came out was "Why?!"

“Well, apparently he wouldn't say. But I did a bit of research on it, and well… apparently he was driving this way when he was pulled over. So I'll give you three guesses as to what he was probably planning.”

“...No.”

“What do you mean 'no?'”

“Well, first of all, it's a fucking stupid idea, and Eddie's smarter than that. I hope. Secondly, he shouldn't… he shouldn't even know I'm here!” Under his breath, Church muttered, “Dammit, Dee, did you fucking blab? Fucking… fuck!” Church rubbed his forehead. “This is not the news I wanted today.”

“So, anyway, I knew where he was when it first came up. But he was released a while back. As far as they know, he had no other criminal record, and they never realised he was… well, Eddie. As soon as he was released he vanished again. Probably switched identities.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeeeeah.”

“And you didn't tell me. I hate you so much right now.”

Tex snorted. Afterwards, her face got sterner. “I could still tell them. They'd look out for him if I did. He'd probably get busted for faking identities for so long.”

“Do you want more begging? Jesus.”

“No. Just saying that you shouldn't push this. But I'll let the Miller thing go.” Tex glanced over at Tucker. “There is evidence that it was… necessary… that time. And really, what can we do? Add another murder to your record? It wouldn't make a difference to you, you're already here for life.”

“Yeah, don't remind me.”

 

* * *

 

“Grif? Uhh, Grif?”

Someone prodded Grif in the back. When Grif rolled over to see who it was, he saw York standing over him.

“The fuck you want? I don't have any pruno, you'd be able to smell it. If it's something else, just write me up for it and leave me alone.” Grif was not in the mood for this. He wasn't in the mood for anything. He just wanted to curl up and go to sleep. At the same time, he was afraid to sleep. If he did, he might wake up and forget, for a few blissful moments, that Simmons was dead. Which hurt all the more once he remembered again.

“It's not like that. You're not in trouble,” York told him.

“Then fuck off.”

“Sorry, but I have to ask. It's about Simmons' cell.”

At just the mention of Simmons' name, Grif turned back to the wall and curled back up. “I don't give a shit.”

“It's just… we need to clean out his cell. His family showed no interest in retrieving his belongings, and Simmons didn't have a will specifying where he wanted them sent. So… I guess it all goes to you. I mean, you were closest to him, right?”

Grif didn't answer, just staring blankly at the grey bricks in front of him. York waited a moment, then kept talking.

“If… if you want us to clean it out, that's fine. I know how hard it can be to look at someone's things. To have… too many reminders. But anything not taken, we have to throw out. We can't just store it away until you feel better, you know?”

Grif thought about that cell. About how he didn't want to ever look at it again, not while knowing that Simmons would never be there again. But the thought of the guards throwing out everything Simmons owned… or claiming dibs to anything nice, like he'd seen some of the guards do when clearing out the cells of other deceased inmates with no-one to leave their things to… that was too painful to even contemplate.

“...Fine,” Grif said, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Just… fuck off, I'll do it.”

“Alright. Take your time. But if you can have it cleared out of anything important by tomorrow, it'd… it'd be a big help.” York made a weird spasm with his hand that might have been intended as a sympathetic gesture that he quit halfway. Good. Grif was already sick of Donut staring at him with pity, he didn't need it from the goddamn guards as well.

Slowly, Grif made himself get up and dragged himself over to Simmons' cell.

For all that Simmons bitched about Grif not keeping his cell tidy, he had a lot of crap crammed everywhere. Mostly sci-fi books filled with technobabble. The kind of thing Grif had always made fun of him for reading. What a fucking nerd.

Grif picked up the books left in the open or stacked under the bed, and put them in a pile. He knew he was unlikely to ever read them. He liked sci-fi, though not to the extent of Simmons, but he'd always preferred watching it to reading it. And the kind that Simmons liked were always too obtuse and wordy. But throwing them away… no. They were Simmons' things. He couldn't throw them away.

Once he'd collected the things left around the cell… books and a can of air freshener that Simmons used to disguise the smell of pruno leaking in from Grif's cell… he moved to the footlocker. When Grif opened it, the very first thing he saw was a Post-It note.

 

> _Fuck off, Grif. Quit going through my stuff._

 

God, the one time Grif wanted to listen to that stupid note.

Grif peeled it off the book it was resting on and crumpled it up. Then he unfolded it again, looking at Simmons' neat, careful handwriting. He crumpled it up again, bringing his arm back with the intent to throw it in the corner and let one of the guards deal with it. But at the last moment, he instead slipped it into his pocket.

There was so much in this footlocker he could have thrown out. There were loose pages that had fallen out of various novels, a spare pair of shoes that had clearly been sprayed with the same air freshener that Simmons used on his cell. But Grif just put them to the side with the books, ready to cart them back to his cell.

Halfway through, he found a packet of Oreos. Another Post-It note was stuck to the front.

 

> _Grif, stop ignoring my notes. Don't eat these! They're for later! Get out of my things!_

 

Grif peeled off the Post-It note and shoved it in his pocket with the first. He looked down at the bag of Oreos. After a moment, he tossed them over his shoulder for the guards to deal with. He didn't feel hungry, and looking at them made his stomach feel worse.

He kept sorting through what remained. As he got near to the end, he heard someone pick up the Oreo packet. Hoping it wasn't Donut, with his stupid pitying stare, Grif looked behind him. It wasn't Donut, but Caboose. Who had a stupid stare of his own, but not quite the same as Donut. Not… pitying, exactly. Honestly, it was hard to read. Annoying, but not as bad as Donut.

“The fuck do you want, Caboose?”

Caboose didn't answer. So Grif ignored him and went back to what he was doing. Caboose probably didn't understand the words 'fuck off.'

Tucked away at the bottom of the footlocker was a small wad of photographs. That wasn't surprising. Grif had a bunch of photos as well. Some of them given to him by Sister, who had always been more set on documenting the occasion than either him or Simmons. Fundamentally, Simmons' photos were similar. But different.

In most of the photos, the only people shown were him, Simmons and Sister. The exception was one photo hidden right at the back of the pile. That photo was of four people. Three of them weren't known to Grif. A man, a woman and a young girl. All smiling with cheery but oddly creepy smiles. The only one he recognised was a child version of Simmons, his smile extra forced in the picture. It was clearly one of those shots that studios did for families. Posed and fake. Grif wondered why Simmons had kept it. He didn't think Simmons had any photos of his family.

As Grif looked through the other photos, he heard Caboose walk away. Much better.

There was a photo of the three of them at a theme park. Sister had given the camera to a stranger to take a picture of them, and said stranger had immediately run for it. He'd been caught by security, and this photo had been on the camera when it was returned. All three of them flailing and running after the accidental photographer.

There was a photo of Sister. She was wearing a semi-revealing sequin-covered club outfit in clashing colours and doing a somewhat provocative pose. Quite frankly, Grif did not want to know why Simmons had this one. If he'd seen it before, Grif would have probably kicked Simmons' ass.

There was a lot of pictures of just Grif, and it was obvious which ones had been taken by Sister and which ones had been taken by Simmons. Sister had a tendency to slap on filters, or wait until Grif was doing something stupid. The one of Grif with a pair of boxers on his head, a sparkler in one hand and a beer in the other, was definitely taken by Sister. A particularly weird evening.

Simmons' ones tended to be filterless and feature more everyday situations, though he also took his share of stupid shots. Grif found one of himself in mid-trip with a huge plate of nachos that had been Simmons' desktop wallpaper at the time of their imprisonment. Grif could still hear how badly Simmons had cracked up after seeing the photo, how much shit he'd given Grif in between laughing so hard he could barely breathe. But there was ones that were just… normal. Grif sitting down. Grif sleeping. Grif in mid-argument with someone. Grif in a bout of laughter.

Also one of Grif, naked and on the sofa, grinning at the camera with his hair mussed and his face flushed. Grif remembered that Simmons had already been fully clothed again when he took that. Back when Simmons hadn't allowed Grif to see him naked. (He'd had to compromise on that once they were in prison, since there was no controlling the lights then.) Grif stuck that one in his pocket with an intent to discard it later. Not really something he wanted to leave for the guards.

The second-last picture was of the two of them. Asleep and cuddled up on the couch. Judging by the empty beers nearby and the clothes… it looked like the New Years where they'd admitted they liked each other. Simmons using Grif's stomach as a pillow, Grif's mouth open and snoring. Sister had taken this one, he remembered. It'd only been a year before they'd been arrested. ...They'd been together so long, and yet so little of that time had been on the outside.

The last photo was of the three of them together again. Sister holding the camera in front of them and doing that duck-face thing. Neither Grif or Simmons had been looking at the camera, instead looking at each other and yelling. Grif was sure it had been one of their 'who would win' arguments. Catwoman vs. She-Hulk. Grif had voted Catwoman because who would be better at catfights than her?

Grif stared at this picture for several minutes. Then he looked at the cell. He'd finished cleaning it out.

It was no longer Simmons' cell. It was just an empty cell, and that carried with it an awful note of finality. The closest thing he'd felt to this finality was the day he was locked away. When the cell door had slammed behind him with that awful, final clang.

But that hadn't been so bad. Because Simmons had been there.

Grif's eyes burned. His throat went dry and a huge lump formed inside it. Grif quickly gathered up Simmons' old things and carried them back to his cell.

Grif found something on his bed when he returned. A stuffed pigeon. Was it Caboose's form of pity? A strange way of cheering him up? Grif decided he didn't care. He pushed it off his bed before flopping down, still holding the little wad of photos. His eyes were burning more and his face was damp. Tears dribbled onto the photos. He tried to wipe them off, but more dripped on after he did.

He couldn't stop sobbing. And right now, he didn't even want to try.


	25. Chapter Nineteen: Theraputic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc starts his new job, and it doesn't go very well. Donut talks to Sarge, and doesn't have kind words while doing it. He also talks to Wash. That goes even worse.

“Okay. I think I'm ready.”

Two days after Wash had gotten him rehired, Doc was trying to stick up his old 'hang in there, kitty' poster in what was now his official office.

Before, it had just been a locked, unused room. It still showed. The ceiling was a little mouldy, the walls unpainted and the floor was a little bit gritty. Doc had attempted to cover it up using blankets, cushions and motivational posters.

“What do you think? Does this look like a therapist's office? Does it look welcoming?” Doc asked Wash, who was standing in the doorway.

“If you added a few dozen cats it would be a clone of my grandmother's living room,” Wash answered dryly.

“...Is that a yes?”

“Uh. Kind of. I mean, she was really racist but she made the best cookies I've ever had?”

“Hmm...” Doc frowned at the room. “...Cookies are good, then? I'll think about that for next time.” He finished taping up the poster before taking a step back. He wasn't sure how he felt about having this poster back in his office, but it would cheer up his patients if nothing else.

Doc backed up before checking the sofa. It was old and a little pointy in some places from loose springs, but it was all he'd been able to find on such short notice. He'd tried to stop the pointiness with some extra pillows. Therapists had to have the feelings sofa. That was the most important thing.

“I guess this is enough to start off with.” Doc bounced a little on his feet before turning to Wash. “...What am I supposed to do? What does this job entail?”

“How should I know?”

“You filled out a lot of the job application for me, why wouldn't you?”

“I was just making up stuff. I don't know what therapy entails. Well, I do, but… I don't know what the therapist should know. Didn't you buy a book on it?” Wash grumbled.

“Well, yeah, but...” Doc picked up the book he'd found the day before. 'Therapy for Dummies.' “But I haven't read the entire thing through yet.”

“It probably doesn't matter. Sarge is so depressed about being fired that you could set fire to the room and he wouldn't notice.” Wash crossed his arms and rested on the doorframe. “But, if you want to act like you're actually doing something… I don't know. Order the inmates up here and ask them questions.”

“Order them? That sounds a little harsh,” Doc said.

“They're unrepentant criminals, they'll live if you're 'a little harsh.'”

Doc paced the room a couple of times. “So… O'Malley. Is he… around? Or is he—“

“He's been in SHU since the riot. Can't say how long he'll be in there. How involved he was in everything is debatable, but they locked him down there for stealing my things. I suppose you have time to prepare before you have to unlock that box of crazy.”

Doc sat down in the other chair he'd brought into the room. He'd borrowed it from the infirmary when he went to retrieve his kitty poster. Sheila hadn't minded much. She'd seemed like a nice woman, although she'd gotten frosty when she'd realised he was the old doctor.

“Hmm...” Doc crossed his arms, thinking. After a long moment, he sighed and shut his eyes. “The longer I put that off, the worse he'll be. I… I guess I should get it over with. He can't take me by surprise that way.” He opened his eyes and looked at Wash. “Would you mind bringing O'Malley here?”

“Right now?”

“I think that would be best.”

“If you say so. Oh, but before I do...” Wash reached for his belt and pulled out the can of pepper spray. He offered it to Doc. “Probably best if you hold onto this.”

Doc recoiled from it. “Wash, no! That's violent!”

“Do you think O'Malley might get violent?”

“...Maybe.” Doc looked at Wash, then averted his eyes. “It's likely. You… you know how he is.”

“Without the pepper spray, O'Malley could probably cause some damage. This'll put him in enough discomfit to distract him. Thus, you're really preventing violence.”

“Huh. I never thought about it like that.” Doc slowly took the can of pepper spray and put it in his pocket, albeit with a trace of reluctance.

“Just don't let him get a hold of it. He's already grabbed it once in the last few days and I don't want to get into any more trouble. I'll be back with him soon.”

Wash walked out. Doc took a deep, shaky breath and leaned back in his chair. The can of spray felt too heavy in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

Donut was hanging up a new load of washing. Since the riot, there were so many stained clothes that it would take weeks to clean them all. And everyone knew that Donut did a much better job than just chucking them in the laundry pile. Softer. Worth the tiny price Donut charged. As such… the riot had resulted in a pretty profitable situation.

It did not make Donut feel better.

He'd dragged Grif outside with him to keep an eye on him and try to get him some fresh air. Staying cooped up wouldn't do him any good.

“I don't want to be out here,” Grif grumbled. He was sitting on the ground, back against the wall. Not really doing anything.

“You're being silly. You need fresh air, Grif.” Donut hung up another jacket, which had previously been covered in food stains. There were other clothes soaking in a plastic bucket nearby. Those were bloodier. “Besides, I need to wash your clothes. They smell. So do you, actually. You need a shower.”

“Do not.”

“You smell like feet,” Caboose said. He was sitting on the ground, too. A little closer to Donut and his bucket of laundry. He wasn't wearing any shoes and kept wiggling his toes. Donut wasn't sure if this was because he wanted to walk around in bare feet or because he'd lost his shoes. “I had a cousin who smelled like feet. He also smoked something that smelt funny and kept saying his name was not what his name was.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Grif muttered.

“You both smell like feet. That is what it has to do with it,” Caboose said.

“I know! Just… just shut up, alright? And stop leaving your fucking stuffed parrot in my cell!”

“Pigeon,” Caboose mumbled.

“Whatever! I don't… fucking...” Grif trailed off for a moment before climbing to his feet. “I'm… I'm going for a walk! If that's alright with you, Mother!” he yelled at Donut before storming off.

“That was not nice,” Caboose said.

“It's fine, Caboose. Also...” Donut pulled out the jacket currently soaking in the bucket, wrinkled his nose at the still-present bloodstains, and pushed it back in, scrubbing at the stains. “I don't think stuffed pigeons are comforting to everyone.”

“It might have been comforting,” Caboose said.

“Mm. I don't think so. Grif's not that kind of guy. Maybe you should keep it with you.”

Caboose pulled his knees up to his chest, frowning. “It is not comforting for me right now. It makes me think of Mama.”

“Oh.”

“Princess Peach!”

Donut turned to see Sarge walking towards him, a bag of laundry slung over his shoulder. As he got closer, Donut could smell alcohol.

“Wash these for me, will you?” Sarge asked, brandishing the bag at Donut. Donut looked at the bag, frowning, then up at Sarge.

“Wife lock you out again?”

“She's as crabby as a sea of angry oxen because I went out drinking with Captain Girlylocks again. It's just gonna get worse once I tell her I'm fired.”

“Fired, huh? Then why are you still here?”

“He does not look burnt,” Caboose said, tilting his head and squinting.

“I'm not fired yet! They're looking for a replacement. Like they'll find someone as dedicated to keeping the dirtbags in as I am.”

Donut raised an eyebrow before looking down at the jacket he was washing. “I don't know if you've noticed, Sarge, but I have a huge backlog of stuff to wash. I can't be washing your things as well. You'll have to go on a waiting list. Throw it in with the regular stuff, if it's important.”

“But it doesn't come out so soft in the regular wash,” Sarge protested. He dropped the bag of laundry next to Donut before gesturing out at the yard. “What do you see, Cupcake?”

“...The yard?” Donut asked slowly.

“That's not the important part! The walls! The walls keep the maggots inside, which is what prisons are supposed to do! And it has done that! Not one escape since I got here! So why should I be fired, huh? I've done my job!”

Donut stopped scrubbing the jacket, looking up. His gaze was significantly colder than it had been a minute ago. “Is that an actual question?”

“Well, it was mostly meant to be rhetorical—“

“Because maybe… just maybe… that might not have been your entire job, Sarge.” Donut's voice was light. Almost sweet, but with an underlying venom. Like a poisoned cupcake. “Maybe part of your job was keeping this place under control. Maybe when I look around, maybe I don't look at the walls and think 'gee, I'm sure glad those are solid.'”

“Cupca—“ Sarge started, but Donut raised a finger.

“No! No. Do not interrupt me. I am really not in the mood for it. Just like I'm not in the mood for the self-pity you're having because someone finally realised how terrible you are at your job. Because when I look around, I don't see the walls. I see scorch marks on the ground from zealots setting off explosives in the yard. I see staff members that range from incompetent to negligent to cruel. I see bloodstains in the clothes I'm washing and empty space where there should be people. And when I look at you, Sarge… I see the man who hired those people. Who let the ingredients for those explosions slip through the cracks. Who still—“ Donut jammed his finger in the direction of the red flag that was flapping in the light breeze. “Will not take that thing down, even after multiple lives have ended because of the nutters that worship it!”

“Son, you are walking a very dangerous line right now,” Sarge said, his voice low and dangerous. “Insulting the Red army like you are. I'll have you charged for insubordination!”

“Oh, yeah, insubordination. Because that's the worst thing I've faced here. It's not like I've been stabbed multiple times. Like I've watched doctors die in front of me. Like I've been locked in the same room as a serial-killing rapist by the people who were supposed to be protecting me. But wow, being accused of insubordination? That's just the final straw, isn't it?”

Caboose made a hushed little 'ooooh' noise. Donut pushed the bag of laundry back towards Sarge with one foot.

“Get someone else to wash your clothes, Sarge. Because right now, I have no sympathy for whatever stupid mess you're in.”

Sarge seemed at a loss for words for a brief moment. Then he let out a long breath.

“Well, that's more stones than I ever expected you to show, Princess. Guess I'll shell out the money to get them washed at the laundromat.”

“I'm so glad you got the point I was trying to make,” Donut said flatly.

After Sarge had left, bag of laundry back over his shoulder, Caboose spoke.

“I do not think Sarge is a very smart man,” he said.

Donut sighed. “Yeah. Me neither.” He went back to scrubbing at the bloodstains.

 

* * *

 

“Really, Washington. I know it's not your style, but you could be a little more gentle. I'm hardly going to run off,” O'Malley sighed, as Wash dragged him along by his collar. “You're going to stretch my jacket, and I have to live in this jacket for the rest of my life. You can see why I might want to keep it from being ruined too fast.”

“You're not allowed to talk. Shut it,” Wash snapped.

“Not allowed to talk? If I have the right to remain silent, then that implies that I have the right to remain chatty.”

“As far as I'm concerned, you don't have any rights at all. Shut up.”

“You haven't even told me where we're going yet.”

“Does it matter? Shut up.” Wash stopped in front of an unmarked door. They were in an oddly disused area of the prison, mostly surrounded by storerooms and rooms that might have been used for something a long time ago. Most of them were locked around the clock. “I'm warning you. I'll be right outside. So no funny stuff. No...” Wash waved his hand at O'Malley. “None of this.”

“None of anything? Oh, Wash, are you implying that I'm untrustworthy?” O'Malley asked, wearing an expression of mock hurt. “I thought we were friends.”

Wash glared at him for a moment before knocking on the door three times.

“That you, Wash?”

O'Malley's attention immediately left Wash and focused on the voice. That was Doc. ...Or at least, O'Malley thought it was. Last time he thought he'd heard Doc's voice he'd actually been hallucinating. In this situation, hallucinating made more sense. Why would Doc be in a disused storeroom?

“Have you been poisoning my meds, Wash?” O'Malley asked uneasily. He didn't want to have Doc yanked away from him like what had happened last time. For reality to cut through the illusions and show him someone else underneath him.

Wash gave him a weird look before saying, “Yeah. Got him. Do you still want to see him? I can drag him back. ...Or hit him a few times. It won't do anything but be cathartic, but—“

“Uh… no, um… no violence. Bring him in. Wait, just a moment!” There were some hurried footsteps from inside before he said, “Okay, I'm… I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

Wash opened the door and roughly shoved O'Malley inside before slamming it again.

“Very rude, Washington!” O'Malley called back. “You should get some etiquette lessons instead of therapy next time!” Once he was done, he turned to face the possible hallucination of Doc.

Doc was sitting in a chair with wheels at the bottom that had obviously been pilfered from the infirmary. He held a notebook and a pencil, and a book sat in his lap. His complexion seemed greyer than usual, and he was shivering. It was a little too detailed for a hallucination, but O'Malley wasn't quite convinced.

“Uhhh… would you like to take a seat or lie down?” Doc asked.

Not a word mentioning that he'd been gone for over a month. It was just like Doc to avoid a nasty subject like that. A sour feeling crawled into O'Malley's stomach, like when he'd eaten a live caterpillar when he was a child. The anger that he'd felt when Doc first left had changed into deep bitterness. And seeing Doc, even if it was a hallucination, made those feelings even worse.

O'Malley took a few steps forward without saying anything. Doc shifted nervously as he did so. O'Malley got close enough to smell that scent Doc had always had. Not quite perfume or deodorant. A flowery, but slightly burnt smell that reminded him of incense. Perhaps he burned it at home, unless Doc thought that offensive to anyone who'd once been on fire.

“Did you hear me?” Doc asked nervously. “This… this is a therapy session, and patients are supposed to lie on the sofa.”

“Are you real?” O'Malley asked bluntly.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you real? You don't smell like a hallucination. So are you really Doc?”

Doc moved forward a bit, perhaps intending to climb out of the chair, but O'Malley grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back down. Doc's chair shifted back an inch.

“Well?” O'Malley asked.

“Who… who else would I be?”

The certainty that this was a hallucination was quickly fading. Doc certainly felt real. He just needed to be squealing like a baby kitten about how inappropriate or offensive something was. It was enough. Doc was back. He was…

The bitterness in O'Malley's stomach started to bubble. It was boiling and turning back into rage. How dare he just walk right back in and act like nothing was different.

“Why did you take so long to come back?” O'Malley's voice was still calm, but his fingers tightened and dug into Doc's shoulders, deep enough to leave bruises. Especially on soft, cowardly Doc.

“Why did—are you serious?” Doc's voice cracked. “Are you actually wondering why I ran off?”

Doc wriggled out of O'Malley's grip and then pushed the ground with his feet, propelling his chair backwards. O'Malley had never despised wheelie chairs so much.

“You were the one who pointed out all the reasons why I should've been working in a coffee shop. Why are you so surprised that I left? And… and this is a therapy session and you need to sit down!” At this stage, he was pushing back on his chair as fast as he could, while O'Malley circled the room trying to reach him. “Please, I'm going to wear out the wheels on this chair and Sheila wants it back later...”

“That, I suppose, explains well enough why you left. But why, then, did you stay away for so long? And if you don't give me a reason that completely stuns me into sympathetic understanding, then… well, let's just say worn-out wheels are going to be—“

As he neared Doc, O'Malley lunged before Doc could move his chair back again. He grabbed the seat, pushing and slamming the chair into the wall. Before Doc could run off, O'Malley placed his hands on the wall either side of him to bar his escape.

“—the very least of your problems,” O'Malley finished. He grinned down at Doc. “Just like old times, isn't it? Nice, warm memories.”

There was a knock at the door. Doc opened his mouth, but O'Malley clasped a hand over it before he could make a sound.

“What's he doing in there?” Wash called out. “I heard clunking.”

“Tell him everything is fine. Don't make things worse for yourself,” O'Malley whispered.

Doc narrowed his eyes, but when O'Malley removed his hand Doc called out, “It's fine! It's… it's a therapy exercise! The one where you punch pillows to vent your anger!”

“I don't think that'll help him,” Wash said dryly.

“Not with that attitude!” Doc lowered his voice before saying to O'Malley, “There. Now… now we should sit down, and continue with—“

“Why's Wash following you around all of a sudden?” O'Malley asked. “Hmm, haven't replaced me, have you? Doc, are you trying to make me jealous?”

“What? That… no! That's just… hang on.” Doc still had the notebook and pencil clasped in his hands. He started writing something down. “I suppose we can conduct therapy sessions standing up, if you really want. The sofa is probably a guideline. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Stop that.”

“But it's my job now.”

“And I'm sure you'll be just as terrible at it as you were being a proper doctor,” O'Malley muttered. “I despise therapists. They were always so roundabout in fixing their patients, when all that was really needed was a lobotomy. Or the cutting off of something, at any rate...” Doc instinctively flinched, and O'Malley grinned widely before placing his hands on Doc's shoulders again. One hand moved further to brush lightly over Doc's neck. “Speaking of cutting things off—“

“No, let's not speak of cutting things off!” Doc said hurriedly. “I… I mean we could talk about anything, this is a welcoming environment and I'll listen to your problems and… and fix them so that you won't have to, um… do what you do.”

“Oh, is that your plan this time? To 'fix' me? Doc, Doc, Doc, what makes you think I need fixing? And even if I did, what makes you think you could do it? What makes you think that you can do anything right?”

O'Malley wasn't speaking louder than a harsh whisper, but the hand on Doc's neck tightened. Not quite cutting off his breathing, but enough to make him uncomfortable. At the same time, he leaned forward so that his lips were close to Doc's ear.

“I told you time after time… you are not allowed to leave. You belong to me. And I prefer that my things remain where I leave them.”

Doc didn't say anything, although he let out an involuntary squeak as O'Malley quickly bit his ear, harder than he would have normally done. O'Malley thought about removing an ear, like he'd done to Donut. He wondered if he could do so just with his teeth. He'd need more time than he had, but the thought filled him with savage glee.

“While I never damaged you for fear of breaking you too soon… maybe a scratch on the paint-job would help you remember, my little plaything.”

O'Malley heard a faint scratchy noise. He moved back a little to see that Doc looked fearful and near tears, which was the effect O'Malley had wanted. But what he hadn't wanted was Doc to still be writing notes down.

“Are you even listening?!”

“Yes, of course, I just… thought I should write this down.” Doc wrote down another sentence. “Sorry, out of curiosity, but were you an only child?”

“Stop analyzing me!”

“It's just you're always using toy metaphors and I thought maybe—hrrk!”

“I told you to stop,” O'Malley growled as he grabbed Doc's throat with both hands and started squeezing. Doc dropped the notepad and pencil in his lap and tried pulling O'Malley's hands away, but with no success. “You run away, you make me go through all the trouble of getting you back, you immediately replace me with Washington and then you dare… you actually dare to try and force me into a therapy session? After all that?!”

Doc might have tried to say something, but it came out as a choked wheeze.

“How dare you! How dare you analyze me like I'm a problem to be solved! How dare you run off! How dare you leave me here with nothing to alleviate my boredom!” O'Malley snarled. Then he moved one hand away from Doc's throat, still keeping the other one clasped tight, to pick up the pencil Doc had dropped. He smiled slightly. “Well, I may not have any sophisticated weapons on me at the moment… but I suppose a pencil will do for now. The eyes are soft, after all.”

He let go of Doc's throat entirely, leaving Doc to gasp for breath, while moving his hands up to Doc's face. His thumb brushed the corner of Doc's eye, causing him to shut his eyes tight automatically.

“Open your eyes, Doc. Or I'll take out both.” Doc kept his eyes shut tight for a moment longer, before one of them opened a little, staring at O'Malley with terror. “I suppose that'll do. You really do have such nice eyes. What a shame.” O'Malley raised the pencil, the point hovering scant centimeters away from Doc's open eye. “Would you prefer to lose this one?”

Doc shoved his hand into his pocket and took something out, raising it to O'Malley's face. O'Malley stared blankly at it for a moment, not realising it was a can of pepper spray until Doc sprayed it in his face.

It was not the first time O'Malley had been sprayed, even in the last week, but it burned, and it burned all the worse because Doc, of all people, dared to put him through this.

O'Malley stumbled back, fingers clawing at his face. Trying to get the damn spray out of his eyes. He couldn't see, all he could hear was Doc's footsteps thundering away from him and a door slamming open. His eyes burned, his stomach boiled with anger.

“Doc! How dare—where'd you go?!” O'Malley screamed. “Doc! When I find you, you'll rue the day—“

Something hit him hard in the back of the head.

 

* * *

 

“Wash, that wasn't necessary!” Doc protested, looking down at the now unconscious O'Malley. “You can't just solve all problems with hitting people.” He blinked rapidly a few times before covering his eyes. “Oww. My eyes hurt!”

Wash shrugged and put away his nightstick. “That'd be the pepper spray. Always some blowback.” He prodded O'Malley with his foot. “And it's easier to get him back to SHU this way.”

“What if he's brain damaged?”

“So what if he is?”

Doc frowned, picking up his notepad from where he dropped it. “That's not how we should do things, Wash.”

Wash rolled his eyes. “Will you stop nagging me if I drop him off with Sheila so she can double-check? But if she asks questions you have to tell her he started the fight.”

“I can do that.” Doc looked down at his notes. Several phrases O'Malley had used were written down, along with the words 'possessive,' 'too many toy metaphors' and 'kind of smelly.' That last one probably wasn't his jurisdiction. He frowned before looking at Wash. “Do you know where I can find a list of all the inmates? So I can go through them all and figure out how everyone's feeling?”

“Ask Sarge. He probably has access to their files.” Wash grabbed O'Malley by his feet and started dragging him out of the room. “And don't get used to this 'me doing things for you' thing. Once things are back to normal I'm done.”

“Okay...”

Once Wash was gone, Doc sat down in his chair and started scribbling down what else he knew about O'Malley.

His hopes weren't high for finding some magical cure that would turn O'Malley into a regular, non-sadistic person. He wasn't that naive. Whatever O'Malley was, it seemed ingrained. Still, it was a starting point for some kind of case study. Maybe he could find a way to calm O'Malley down. Or not.

Best hope he had right now.

 

* * *

 

Over the next week, Doc went through a list of inmates and, in alphabetical order, got them to come up to his new office for fifteen-minute sessions so he could quickly try and evaluate their emotional and mental states. He wouldn't be able to make a sophisticated diagnosis for anyone in that time, but he could make an educated guess as to whether they needed any more counseling.

He was nervous about getting started, for sure. But a good read-through of 'Therapy For Dummies' had to mean something, right? And the other inmates couldn't be as terrifying as O'Malley.

 

* * *

 

“I do not need help.”

Doc tilted his head, watching Caboose bounce slightly on the sofa.

“Um, Caboose...” Doc started. “I got the impression that you do need help. Given your past history with traumatic brain injuries and a tendency to, well… both oversimplify things and… hurt people—I mean, um… be mysteriously around people who get hurt when alone with you—“

“You can say I hurt people.”

“Oh, can I?”

“Yes. I am no longer in the Nile.”

“In the… oh, you mean in denial?”

“Yes. No more rivers.”

“Well, that's good! That's a good first step to anything, and I'm very proud of you,” Doc said, smiling at him.

“You should not be proud,” Caboose said seriously. “It is like giving someone candy because they did not steal another child's candy.”

“I suppose...”

“And I do not need help now. Sometimes I am sad, but I do not need help.” Caboose poked at the couch cushion, a small smile on his face. “I feel okay, because Lemon Tart is there. And he is… like glue.”

“Lemon Tart?” Doc puzzled over this for a moment before going, “Oh, Donut?”

“Yes.”

“Okay implies that you could be doing better.”

“Better than okay is not for bad people,” Caboose said. He looked around the room, eyeing the blankets that Doc had covered most surfaces with. “Can I make a fort?”

“Would it make you feel better than okay?”

“Maybe.”

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Church did ask for help on something, but it wasn't exactly conventional therapy.

“So, if you smuggled in some cigarettes and alcohol for me then I could pay you back in a few days,” Church said. He was sitting on Caboose's fort, which Doc had made a solemn promise not to take down. “And if you keep helping me smuggle in shit then there'd be a pretty good black market going. Now that Wyoming's gone there's a huge demand. Plus, you can't be getting paid that much, can you? This place is a shithole, they can't afford a therapist, can they?”

“Okay, first of all… I get paid enough. I'm fine. And second of all, I can't bring in alcohol and cigarettes for you! That's illegal. Not to mention unhealthy!” Doc looked down at his notepad. He hadn't written anything useful down. All he had there was a drawing of a cowboy.

“Probably. But you said you wanted to help me.”

“With your emotional health! Not with smuggling!”

“Okay, okay, look. Doc, listen. A fuckton of guys in here make their own alcohol. I mean, if you've ever been down in the cells you've probably smelt it. Fucking rotten oranges and shit. Thing is… not only does pruno taste like piss, but occasionally some dumbass doesn't ferment it right, they get botulism poisoning and they kick the bucket.”

“Oh, I remember that happening once,” Doc said.

“Right? See, thing is… you bring in alcohol… just cheap stuff, I'm not asking for single-malt whiskey here… and we at least know where it comes from. We know it probably won't kill us. The inmates, they're gonna drink anyway. Isn't it better if it comes from a sanitary, reliable source?”

Doc hummed a little under his breath. “Well, when you put it that way… but I'm not smuggling cigarettes. And what happens if I get caught?”

“You won't unless you act suspicious. Most guards don't care unless it's something super illegal, and I don't deal with the drugs side of things. Just don't pull a York and you'll be fine. Deal?”

“Erm… okay. Can't you just smuggle in soft drinks, though? Still unhealthy, but—“

“Fuck no. We're trying to get drunk, sugar's not going to do it.”

 

* * *

 

Looking at Donut was difficult.

Every time Doc looked up, he saw the dark hole in the side of his head and the few tattered flaps where his ear used to be, and guilt crawled around in his stomach like a drunk centipede. He found it easier to keep his eyes fixed on his notepad.

“Um… so. How are things?” Doc started lamely. He didn't know where to start with Donut. He'd had ideas in his head before Donut walked in, and now all he could think was 'there is a hole in the side of his head and O'Malley put it there because of me.'

“What are you thinking?” Donut said suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“Why'd you come back? Wasn't… wasn't O'Malley after you?”

“Erm. Who told you something that silly?” Doc mumbled.

“He did. Well, he didn't mean to. He overdosed. Thought I was you,” Donut said, He hugged himself and shuddered. “He was getting far too close. Kept saying 'Doc.' So I bit him.”

“Oh, is that why...” Doc trailed off before sticking out his tongue and gesturing at it. He'd seen the damage when O'Malley was threatening him, heard the slight difficulty at pronunciation, but not quite processed them.

“Yeah.” Donut looked at him with concern. “Why would you come back to that, Doc?”

“Look, this session isn't about me.”

“Maybe it should be.”

Doc removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It may not have been much, but even just Donut's little bit of concern made him want to cry.

“Donut… you saw what he did. You saw the riot.”

“I… yeah, I...” Donut trailed off and looked down. “Yeah.”

“If… if I told you that he did that because I left… what would you say?”

Donut looked up. He stared at Doc for a long, silent moment. A lot of different emotions flickered across his face then.

“I would say,” Donut said finally. “That that's his fault, rather than yours.”

“But… but if I stay here, he doesn't do it again. That's better, isn't it? No more riots. No more death. No-one gets hurt—“

“Except you.”

“Isn't that better than another riot?”

Donut rested his face in his hand, not looking at Doc.

“...I don't want another riot,” Donut whispered. He sounded ashamed. He wouldn't look at Doc.

“It's okay. But thank you for your concern, that's…” Doc struggled for a word that wasn't 'new.' “Um… but don't… don't tell anyone else what I just told you. It's… confidential, and… just don't. Please?”

Donut's eyes flickered at Doc, then away again. “Okay.”

“Do you want to talk about anything? Do you have any problems, Donut?”

Donut shook his head. “Nothing that can… that can be fixed with just words.”

“Oh. Well… if you need me, I'll be here.”

 

* * *

 

Grif was one of the few where Doc didn't have to fish around for subjects to concentrate on.

“I… I heard about Simmons.”

“Yeah? So what?” Grif's voice was harsh and bitter.

“I… I'm very sorry.” Doc couldn't say 'I'm sorry that I made it happen,' but he tried to put as much of that into the words as possible.

“Bullshit,” Grif muttered.

“And I'm here to help you with your grief.”

“Oh, yeah? You're gonna help? You can't even stitch up a fucking papercut, but you're going to fix this?” Grif let out a harsh bark that might have been laughter. “What are you going to do? Read a wiki page about the five stages of grief at me? Say 'I just need time?' Because even if that were true, time doesn't pass properly in here. It's fucking groundhog day all the time! So unless you have a ton of alcohol—“

“Not for a few days—I wasn't supposed to say that outloud.”

“—or a time machine or the fucking Necronomicon or whatever, then you can't do shit.”

“I'm sure there's… there's something that can help,” Doc said, trying to covertly flick through 'Therapy For Dummies.' “Maybe if… I've heard that a good way to start is to resolve all the loose feelings and—“

“There's nothing to resolve, Doc!” Grif yelled, before burying his face in his hands. “He's dead. That's all there is to it. He's dead, and he wouldn't be if I hadn't… fucking dropped my wallet...” Grif's fingers twisted in his hair, tugging angrily. “I might as well have gutted him myself.”

“That's not—“

“Maybe it would have even been better if I had. At least it would have been quicker.” Grif looked up. He wasn't crying. He just looked blank and tired. “Simmons is dead. Guy who killed him is dead. Only loose end is me, and I… I don't know how to deal with that yet. So don't try to fix this with fucking pity and second-hand therapy books.”

Doc didn't manage to help Grif. But he scribbled down a note, and underlined it, about telling the guards to keep an eye on Grif. Just in case.

 

* * *

 

“Tucker,” Doc said slowly. “Normally, I'd hate to accuse anyone of lying—“

“You calling me a liar?”

“No, no, no! I'm just… I think you might be a little confused.”

Tucker let out a huff. “I'm not confused. I'm blind, not stupid.”

“Well… maybe you… embellished a little, then?”

“Nah, it's 100% true. Super traumatic shit, yeah?”

Doc flipped back a page in his notebook. “You told me that you never knew your father, and then a minute later said he was regularly drunk and violent.”

“Oh, damn, I knew I got something wrong.” Tucker shrugged. “Guess I owe Church ten bucks. He bet me that you wouldn't notice any holes in my story. I think that's more a mark against you than belief in my skills, though.”

Doc frowned. “That's mean.”

“Hey, you know Church. He's a dick.”

“So… how much of that story was true?”

“Honestly? You'd have to read it back to me.”

Reading it back lead Tucker to, after a long list of 'true, false, false, true, false, half-truth,' eventually deem the story 'about thirty-five percent accurate.'

 

* * *

 

Doc learned two things that week.

One, that 'Therapy For Dummies' didn't really count for much. And two… that it was very hard to do his work as a therapist when no-one seemed to want his help at all.

 

* * *

 

If one were to ask Wash what he was doing, he would not say hiding. He just happened to be trading shifts with York at odd times, and coincidentally going into rooms that Doc wasn't likely to check whenever he spotted him.

As it turned out, leaving his pepper spray with Doc and being the one to practically drag him back to the prison had the unforeseen side effect of Doc coming to him whenever there was a problem. If an inmate got violent during a therapy session, or if he was concerned and wanted a guard to keep an eye on someone, he always brought these concerns to Wash.

Worse, Doc had started seeking him out when he didn't want something. He just kept turning up to talk. Rambling and asking questions. It was weird. Usually, people realised quickly that Wash didn't like questions. Doc had yet to receive that message.

'What do you do outside of work' and 'are you friends with York' and 'do guards get paid overtime like therapists do?' Wash was still perplexed at the fact that Doc got overtime for a job that had been largely made up by them on the spot.

The last time Doc had cornered him, he'd been holding a notepad and pencil and had started writing down Wash's responses. Wash had only barely resisted the urge to slap the notebook out of his hands.

The bottom line was that Doc was following him around, and it was getting weird. It was not the sort of behavior Wash expected from anyone, let alone someone who he'd sent gory pictures to in an attempt to emotionally blackmail into returning to a dangerous job. Like some strange form of Stockholm Syndrome.

So the next time Wash saw a flash of purple around the corner, he quickly backed up and went to look for somewhere to… uh, inspect. The laundry closet was as good a place as any. Wash yanked the door open, stepped inside and closed the door quickly.

For one split second, he was in darkness. Immediately, panic started to rise in his throat, but Wash reached out and flicked the light on. The light illuminated the rows upon rows of orange jumpsuits, and the faint stains on the floor. It also revealed the inmate huddled in the corner.

Wash stared down at Donut, who stared back with a wary expression. His eyes were red and watery, and he was currently in the process of wiping them. Despite this, his expression was stony once he looked at Wash.

“Oh, god. What now?!” Donut muttered.

Wash raised a hand before pressing his ear to the door, listening. He heard footsteps pass by the door and disappear again. Once they were gone, he crossed his arms and leaned on the wall, back to looking at Donut.

“I didn't know you'd be in here. ...Now that I think about it, you shouldn't be.”

“I just… I wanted privacy,” Donut mumbled.

“Are you crying?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. Who cares? What does it matter?” Donut said defensively, looking away. “Just leave me alone. Why do you always have to turn up when I'm alone? You're… you're a damn creeper.”

“Believe what you want. I'm the one who has a right to be here, not you. You're supposed to be where guards can see you. Otherwise, people might think you're up to something.”

“And that'd be so unusual for you, wouldn't it? You going to bring up Maine now? Because, seriously, you sound like a broken record. Find a new soundtrack. Something with light pop music or something.”

“What.”

“You know what I mean! Nevermind, I'm going—“

Donut moved towards the door, but Wash shifted so that he was leaning on the door instead, blocking Donut's only exit. Donut stared at him, then took a step back.

“Doesn't have to be this way, Donut. You could just tell me,” Wash said quietly. “Tell me and that'll be the end of it.”

“I have. Come on, Wash, really? What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.” Wash paused for a moment, before saying, “I heard you had a screwdriver to O'Malley's throat during the riot.”

Donut took another step back. He didn't say anything, but there was obvious confusion on his face.

“I overheard North telling South,” Wash said, answering the unspoken question. “He walked in on you about to cut his throat out. Far as I know, he didn't tell anyone else. Guess he figured there was enough to deal with. But… well, there were two other bodies near you. No-one's been charged for those two, you know. We tried asking who killed Simmons and that zealot. But O'Malley laughed like he always does, no-one could understand Lopez and Grif was too catatonic to say anything.

“As for you… you told the other guards you got there too late to see what happened, didn't you? Now, it might just be me… but dead bodies and near-death situations… well, they just seem to crop up around you, don't they? And you just 'happened' to get there too late to see what happened? Kind of convenient, if you ask me. So are you covering up for someone else's murders? Or your own? Were you about to add a third body onto the pile when North walked in?”

Donut took two abrupt steps forward. He stopped next to Wash, staring at him with undiluted hatred. A strangled, angry noise came from his throat.

Then he reached out and flicked the lights off.

Along with the darkness came another wave of fear. One hand jammed against the light switch, flicking it back on almost immediately. The other grabbed Donut by the front of his jacket and slammed him into the wall.

Before Wash even really registered what he was doing, he was punching Donut in the face. Again. Again. Again. Trying to turn his stupid, innocent face into a red smudge on the brick wall.

A hand swiped the side of Wash's face, fingers digging in and dragging red lines down the side of his face. Wash jerked his face away before grabbing Donut's wrist and slamming that hand into the wall, too. Wash thought about breaking Donut's arm. About smashing his wrist until those bones fractured so badly that he'd never be able to properly use that hand again.

Donut refused to stay still. Thrashing, kicking. No matter where Wash tried to pin him down, he kept using some other limb to lash out back. Until Wash kneed him hard in the chest. Donut let out a choked noise, curling up instinctively, and Wash smashed his fist into Donut's face again. This time, he heard Donut's nose crack.

It was all a little too easy. Wash breathed hard, clasping his hand around Donut's throat and squeezing enough to let Donut know that he could crush his windpipe, if he really wanted to.

“Is that it? Is that the sort of fighting that killed the Meta?” Wash snarled.

Donut spat in his face. Blood was streaming from his nose, but he didn't look afraid. Just mad.

“I… I didn't… kill—“ Donut started to rasp with what little breath he had.

“Didn't kill him? Funny, there was a certain obituary and prison sentence that sure said otherwise,” Wash said, slamming Donut into the wall again.

“No, not… I didn't kill Simmons. I didn't! Do not...” Donut squirmed a little under Wash's grip. “Don't you dare say… that I'd ever do that.”

Wash's eyes narrowed for a moment. He tilted his head, studying Donut. He really didn't seem like much like this. How could the Meta fall to this, when Wash had him so easily cornered? Was Wash stronger now? Or… or was he just plain wrong?

No. There had to be something that was missing.

Wash drew his nightstick from his belt and tapped Donut with it lightly. “This is a restricted area, and you did just injure a guard.” Wash could feel a bit of blood trickling down his own face. Donut had dug his nails in deep. “Maybe I should throw you in SHU for a while.”

“No. Have to… have to take care of Grif,” Donut rasped.

“Then maybe it's in your best interest to keep quiet, too.” Wash tapped him again. “Worst comes to worst, maybe I lose my job. And maybe you get a very black mark on your record. The kind that haunts anyone who comes up for parole.”

Although, the idea of losing his job was a terrifying one. Wash was not what most people would consider employable. Something he'd learned first-hand after leaving the hospital. That period of unemployment had led to a lot that he didn't want to ever experience again. But he didn't think it'd come to that. Maybe when the new warden arrived, but not now.

Donut didn't respond. Wash let go of him, and Donut slumped a little, wheezing and trying to catch his breath.

“Don't let me see you in here again,” Wash said, before leaving and heading for the bathroom so he could clean up the scratches on his face.

He should probably come up with a reason those were there. If he couldn't think of anything, he had ways of hiding scratches. Same methods he used for any scars that his shirt collar didn't quite cover. He didn't think he'd get fired over a few scratches, but he knew York would put things together. And he didn't want York mad at him again.


	26. Final Flashback - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final flashback out of eight, continued on from the flashbacks shown in Volume 1. This part only contains Church's past.
> 
> The fallout of Wash's release and Gary's death occurs, and finally the attack on the Director is put into action.

**Church**

 

To say that O'Malley had been annoyed at Gary's death and somewhat reluctant to fix Eddie was underestimating it heavily.

When Church had shoved open the door, his first impression was of noise. Of O'Malley bellowing at Delta, almost incomprehensible in his rage. Delta was trying to talk back and his voice was raised, though not angry. Trying to insist on why Gary's death affected nothing. Theta was between the two, hands outstretched, also yelling for them to calm down and please argue about it some other time.

None of this mattered. Because while this meaningless argument was going on, his little brother was bleeding out on the couch.

The moment he'd seen him, Church had moved over, gripping Eddie's hand like letting go would cause him to drown. The hand was cold and clammy, but there was still a pulse. Church was terrified that each beat would be his last.

He didn't care who won the argument. Either O'Malley would fix Eddie, or Church would take him to the hospital and risk discovery of everything he'd done in the last ten years. Didn't matter. What was the point of becoming a criminal and keeping it secret if the reason he did so was dead?

Church was moments away from picking up Eddie and running. Nevermind that Meta was in the van with a hostage. But it was Meta himself that made the choice moot.

The door slammed open. Meta walked in, dragging behind Price. Price had currently been blinded with the subtle solution of a bag over his head.

Meta unceremoniously shoved Price at Theta, who grabbed a hold of his arm while looking a mix of bemused and terrified. Meta pointed at Price, then in the general direction of the basement. Theta nodded and started pushing Price along. Price didn't fight back.

Then Meta grabbed Delta's arm and dragged him away from O'Malley, ignoring any protests. Once he was done, he walked back and grabbed O'Malley's collar. Much rougher than he'd grabbed Delta.

"What do you think you're doing? Just because you're a wall of muscle doesn't mean you can manhandle—I said stop it!" O'Malley yelled, as Meta dragged him to the couch that Eddie had been placed on.

Meta stopped and let go of O'Malley. At the same time, he pointed down at Eddie. He was unconscious and chalk-white underneath the blood. His breathing was shallow, and despite Delta's attempts to stop the bleeding, blood was still oozing slowly.

As he pointed at Eddie, Meta let out a roar. One that shook the eardrums. Church usually couldn't understand what Meta was talking about as the man was, to Church's knowledge, incapable of speech. But the meaning of that roar was extremely clear.

"You can't talk to me like that." O'Malley said. His tone was confident, but the fact that he'd gone almost as white as Eddie when Meta roared canceled out that attempt at confidence.

Meta grabbed O'Malley by the collar again. This time, he pulled O'Malley towards him. And as Meta towered over everyone, O'Malley included, this resulted in him lifting O'Malley off the ground. At the same time, he let loose a quiet but dangerous growl. One that said, 'I'll do what I goddamn want, bitch.'

O’Malley let out a short, choked noise, eyes darting around. He saw that no-one intended to help him if Meta decided to throttle him. His eyes lingered briefly on an empty space in the doorway, where Gamma had often been during group meetings. Then he looked back at Meta and nodded his head slightly.

Once Meta had lowered O’Malley enough for his feet to touch the ground, O’Malley said, “This is extortion.”

"And performing a criminal act equal to or worse than extortion would be a completely new experience for us," Delta said dryly. "Start working as quickly as possible. Epsilon may not have much time."

"Yeah, and that'd be a shame, wouldn't it?" O’Malley muttered. He gestured for Church to move. "Out of the way, Alpha. A sofa's no place to do surgery."

Church gritted his teeth. Leaving Eddie in O'Malley's hands made him extremely nervous. But what other choice did he have?

Face still twisted in a scowl, O'Malley snapped his fingers at Meta. "Take him to the bedroom, find the cleanest bed. Be careful. Or don't, I don't really care. Just be grateful that I'm doing this."

Snarling quietly, Meta picked Eddie up carefully and carried him towards the bedroom.

"Should just let him die from infection," O'Malley muttered. "If you want him to live, stay out here and don't distract me."

 

* * *

 

The room was silent.

Church sat on the sofa that Eddie had been lying on, face buried in his hands. Whenever he heard even the tiniest sound come from the bedroom, he would look up. But as soon as he realised it wasn't O'Malley coming out to tell him whether it was a success or failure he dropped his head down again and returned to mentally freaking out.

Everyone but Theta was there. Theta had stayed in the basement to keep an eye on Price. Looking around, Church realised how few of them were left. No Sigma. No Gamma. ...No Eddie.

Delta was seated on the couch with him. He wasn't moving or showing any signs of stress. He was just staring ahead unblinkingly, hands clasped neatly in his lap. He looked like someone waiting for the bus. Meta, on the other hand, was pacing constantly. He'd attempted to stay in the room with O'Malley and Eddie, but O'Malley had kicked him out because his growling was putting him on edge. He just moved back and forth, making an uneasy purring noise.

Not a word was spoken the whole time. It was only an hour, give or take some minutes, but to Church it felt like a few thousand years.

At one point, Church’s phone started buzzing. His only response was to turn it off and toss it on a table before he continued waiting.

Finally, the bedroom door swung open again. O'Malley walked out, plastic gloves covered in blood. He didn't say anything, just walked right into the bathroom. As Church got up and approached the room, he heard the snapping sound of O'Malley removing the plastic gloves, followed by running water. The disturbingly happy jingle he normally hummed as he washed his hands was notably absent.

Church stopped in the doorway and stared at O'Malley. "Well?"

"Well what?" O'Malley muttered.

"You know what!"

"At the moment he's sleeping. I fixed him. What did you expect? Now go away." O'Malley closed the door in Church's face.

Church stepped backwards before turning around and rushing into Eddie’s room. Eddie was lying on the bed, eyes shut. His blood-soaked shirt had been removed and was lying in the corner in shreds, having seemingly been cut off rather than yanked. As Church got closer, he saw a line of neat stitches across Eddie’s stomach.

Eddie was breathing steadily. He was still pale, but not as chalk white as he’d been.

Church’s legs felt shaky all of a sudden. There were no chairs in the bedroom, so he sat on the edge of the bed. He was careful not to bump Eddie. He covered his face and sat there for a while, listening to the sound of Eddie’s steady, but slightly ragged, breaths.

He heard soft, heavy footsteps and looked up. Theta was peeking through the door at them.

“Is he… is he okay?” Theta asked timidly.

“...He’s alive,” Church said. He covered his face again. “He’s… he’s alive. Fuck… I was worried O’Malley would kill him on purpose.”

“O’Malley wouldn’t do that,” Theta said. Church snorted derisively in response.

“Fuck, you’re too trusting, kid.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Whatever.”

“Theta.” Delta appeared in the doorway. “You need to keep an eye on Price.”

“But—“ Theta started.

“Epsilon will live. You have to focus on our current mission.”

Theta lowered his head, his eyes watery. After a moment he nodded. “Fine.” He left, heading back for the basement. Delta watched Theta leave, then stepped inside and closed the door before walking over to peer at Epsilon.

“...Are you well?”

“Do I fucking look well?” Church muttered, not looking at Delta. “Don’t do the emotional shit, Dee, it doesn’t suit you.”

“...Affirmative.” Delta looked at him. “In that case, we need to discuss what happened. In particular, our missing captive.”

“Shit… yeah, that’s right. What the fuck happened?” Now that Eddie wasn’t at death’s door, the questions were pouring into Church’s head. “Where did Washington go? And why the fuck did you shoot Gary? I mean, come on, shouldn’t you have at least asked him questions first? I don’t really like Gary or anything, but Christ. Cold.”

“He was found with the knife that harmed Epsilon.”

“And you saw him do it?”

“He was standing over the body. I found evidence of his treachery in Cyborg2.0’s files.”

“Did you see him do it?” Church repeated. Delta didn’t respond. “Goddammit, did you just start shooting without asking him questions?!”

“Gamma is well known for being a convincing liar. I was not going to give him the chance to form a coherent excuse.”

“And that still doesn’t explain where Washington is! What if he brings the cops back here?”

“The others are tidying up what we would need to take with us. We will move soon. Provided that Epsilon can be transferred without problems.”

“The fucking running again...” Church rubbed his forehead, looking down at Eddie. “God, I’m sick of this shit. I went along with this criminal stuff so we wouldn’t have to keep running! So me and Eddie could hide and build a life away from Dad, so he wouldn’t have to run or be attacked by insane torture victims. All we do is run and kill. We haven’t done anything except chase revenge in the last few months!”

Church got the sudden urge to kick a hole through the wall. He discovered a few seconds later that doing so while barefoot was an awful idea.

“OW, FUCK!”

“That was not your brightest moment,” Delta observed.

“Shut up! God, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the running, the killing, your stupid monotone voice and habit of fucking shooting everybody—“

“It was a logical reaction,” Delta said in a slightly raised voice. “I have shot very few people in my life. You have engaged in much more murder than I have.”

“On your fucking orders! You know what? Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck O’Malley, fuck Wash, I am fucking sick of all your shit.”

Delta didn’t reply, he just crossed his arms and stared at Church. Church tried to think of something else to shout at him. He just wanted to yell at someone. Instead, he ended up looking at Edde. Still pale and motionless. That took all the rage out of him.

“Dude… it’s not worth it,” Church said, his voice now quiet and hoarse. “Hell, it was never worth it. It’s just… it’s just more obvious now. Why can’t you see that? You’re supposed to be smart, aren’t you?”

Delta lowered his gaze. "Sometimes it becomes difficult to see the value of this area of work."

"Then why do you keep doing it?!"

"Because I did not want Father's work to go to waste."

"Oh yeah, because killing and smuggling is so fucking important to the world, isn't it?!"

"That reason is purely emotional."

"You have emotions now?"

"From a more logical standpoint..." Delta continued, as if Church hadn't spoken. "I do not know how to do anything else."

"Bullshit, Dee! Bull-fucking-shit! You've got the smarts, don't you? Just use them to do something legit! Something besides shooting people in the fucking face before they have a chance to explain themselves!"

"It was a logical reaction, Alpha!"

"Oh yeah? Logical, was it? Will you start shooting me if I do something so suspicious as stand near someone injured?!"

"Shurrup," Eddie mumbled in his sleep. Church and Delta both stopped arguing immediately, but Eddie didn't say anything else.

"Should he be talking? Didn't O'Malley put him under for the stitching?" Church asked, voice quiet again. Although the urge to shout was still very much there.

"I do not believe we had any anesthetic within reaching distance," Delta muttered.

"Fuck!"

Awkward silence ensued. Neither resumed shouting, but the tension from the argument was still there. Delta looked at Eddie, then stared in the direction of the basement. He eventually spoke.

“There is too much evidence in our basement. Depending on how coherent Washington is and how quickly he reached a higher authority, we have little chance of being able to clean it thoroughly. We will have to burn down the house.”

“Seriously?”

“Would you rather we left it as it is?”

“Whatever, you know what? I don’t care. Burn it down.”

“I will require—“

“Go get whatever it is yourself, I’m not fucking interested. You want to burn the place down, you get the shit. I ain’t moving from this room until Eddie’s all good again.”

“Affirmative.We will leave as soon as possible. Judging by the difficulty of moving Epsilon, finding and lighting the fire, locating a new safehouse and transferring any necessary supplies... we should be able to leave by tomorrow morning. 10:30, if I am right in my calculations."

"That long? What if Wash—"

"It is an unavoidable risk. Most of us will be able to leave beforehand, but some must remain to light the fire and make sure it is burning strongly enough to destroy the evidence before the fire department gets here." Delta turned around to leave. "Look after Epsilon. That is your only job for the moment."

"...Alright."

Once Delta had left, Church located a chair from elsewhere in the house, dragged it into the bedroom and set it beside Eddie. He took a seat and waited for Eddie to regain consciousness.

He fell asleep before that could happen. The last thing he thought before he nodded off was that he'd forgotten to do something, but he couldn't remember what.

 

* * *

 

"No shit, that really happened? That's fucking crazy."

Church, still mostly asleep, heard conversation. Or more specifically, he heard one side of the conversation. The other half was only growling, and he could never understand that stuff.

"But Gary didn't do that. I think I'd remember it. Unless he did when I was out... how many stab wounds do I have?"

A short growl.

"Yeah, he definitely didn't do anything."

Church opened his eyes. He'd half-slid off his chair, and was using the bed as a pillow. When he looked up, he saw Meta sitting beside the bed. He and Eddie were engaged in a presumably interesting conversation. It was hard to tell.

"Eddie?" Church said sleepily.

"Oh, you're awake. Get off my foot. I've got pins and needles and you kept drooling in your sleep," Eddie said, twitching the foot that was directly underneath the part of the bed Church had been leaning on. Church sat up quickly.

"Sorry about that. Are you alright?"

"I feel great. The huge bitchass pain in my stomach isn't annoying at all," Eddie said sarcastically. "But it's just bitchass pain, it's not worse than that."

"How'd it happen?"

"Fucking Wash. Asshole stabbed me. That little bitch," Eddie said bitterly. "Last time I try to help anyone."

"Did Gary do anything?"

"Like I told Meta, no. He must have arrived afterwards, he wasn't even in the house when it happened," Eddie said.

"Fuck. That is... gonna be tough to explain to O'Malley. Ah, fuck him." Church frowned, the other part of what Eddie had said catching up. "Wait... you were helping him? What were you doing in there?"

"Uh. Um. Ahhh, well... uhhh..." Eddie looked really nervous. "I was... kinda setting him free."

"What?!"

"You were gonna kill him!" Eddie twisted his hands together. It was a movement very similar to the one Theta always did when he was nervous. "I didn't want that to happen. Although..." Eddie scowled. "If I'd known he was gonna stick a knife in my stomach... dunno if he was all there, though. He was all giggly."

"Well, yeah, he was in a basement for three months. Jesus, I can't believe you let him out! What the fuck were you—"

Meta snarled loudly, staring at Church. Church immediately stopped shouting. Eddie had just been stabbed, he didn't need to be screamed at now. He wasn't sure if that's what Meta was telling him, but it was the feeling he got from that growl. Church took a few deep breaths before talking again.

"Just... just get as much sleep as you can before we have to move."

"Yeah, okay. How long was I out for?"

"Fuck do I know? I wasn't keeping track of the time." Church looked at the window. He could see the faint colours of the sunrise. He must have slept at the foot of the bed all night. "Uh. It's early in the morning now, so..."

"Weren't you supposed to go somewhere with Tex? A steakhouse or something?"

"Eh? Oh." He was right. Tex had gone along with his suggestion of them having a proper dinner, but had chosen the most butch steakhouse she could find. Last night was when they'd been going there. Church wondered why she hadn't called him... but then recalled turning his phone off and tossing it somewhere the previous night. "Right."

"She's gonna fuck you up," Eddie mumbled. "Sorry."

"Oh, stop apologising," Church grumbled, before ruffling Eddie's hair. "You're more important than a stupid dinner. Anyway, I'm gonna check on what the others are doing. Get better, alright?"

As Church left, he heard Eddie and Meta resume their conversation. It made as little sense as ever to him.

He almost bumped into O’Malley. He was standing right outside. Arms crossed, glaring daggers at Church. His eyes looked bloodshot.

“What?” Church muttered defensively.

O’Malley said nothing. He just turned around and left, heading back into the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. Church stared at the door for a moment, then shrugged it off.

 

* * *

 

It was still very early when Tex's phone rang. She wasn't even at work yet, she was still browsing through her fridge and looking for something she could eat quickly. Very few people would call her that early in the morning.

She located her phone behind the sofa. She'd been rather angry the night before and had thrown it there. Luckily, it was a durable phone. It had suffered the brunt of her bitch fits before. She checked it and saw that Leonard was the one ringing. She flicked the phone open and held it to her ear.

"Tex, I—"

"Fuck off." Tex hung up. While nearly everything annoyed Tex to some degree, being stood up at a steakhouse was above average on the 'pisses-me-off' meter.

The phone rang again almost immediately. She contemplated whether to answer it or not, but figured she might as well hear his excuse. Just so she'd know how much shit she was gonna give him for this. She answered the phone again.

"Bitch, don't hang up on me!"

"Oh, so I'm the bitch here? Why'd you stand me up, cockbite?"

"There was..." There was a couple of moments of hesitation before Leonard kept talking. "There was this massive emergency. I was at the hospital. Otto... he, uh... he fell out a window. Glass in the stomach. Bad shit."

"You better not be lying."

"Why would I lie about this?"

"Because I'd totally fuck you up if you used any excuse other than death or injury in the family. I mean it, if this is a lie I'm gonna pull your skull outta your head and beat you to death with it."

"That doesn't seem physically possible..."

"I'll make it possible."

"But seriously, I'm actually telling the truth. I'm not gonna be around for a while, I'm gonna be with Otto in the hospital, so..."

"Which hospital? And how’d he live after that? I’ve been to your apartment, remember? You were far too high up for him to have survived that."

"Uhhhh... uh, that would be because... uhhh... uhhh..."

"Yeah, thought so. Fuck off." Tex hung up again and threw her phone across the room again. Fucking bastard, giving her that crappy excuse. Like she'd believe that he had to take Otto to the hospital without asking details. She was a fucking cop, it was her job to see through that kind of thing.

A few moments later, she picked up the phone again and ran off to work. Now Leonard had wasted the time she needed to grab breakfast. Bastard.

 

* * *

 

Her phone didn’t ring again until an hour later. At that point, Tex was doing her paperwork. The station was relatively quiet lately. Not much was happening in their part of the city. It was a nice change. Tex had actually been approaching a good mood until her phone had rung again.

She put down her pen and checked the phone. Leonard. Again. She flicked the phone open.

"I said fuck off, which of those two words don't you understand?" she snapped.

"This isn't Leonard."

Tex frowned. The voice was unfamiliar to her. But something about the voice was very eerie. It was the sort of voice where if you heard it in a dark alleyway you would shit yourself in fear. Even if they were just lost and asking for directions.

"Yeah? Why you got his phone, then?"

“I’m borrowing it. It seemed the quickest method of getting in contact with you.”

"I'm kinda busy at the moment."

"So I would assume. But I'm sure most of this is relevant to your area of business."

Tex frowned, before locating a notepad and her pen. It couldn't hurt to hear this man out.

"Alright. Who're you?"

"My real name shall stay secret. But I am commonly known as Omega.”

Even just that name set off alarm bells in Tex’s head. No-one could work in her line of work without at least hearing about the Greek letter criminals that littered the city, although she couldn’t remember hearing about an Omega. She definitely knew of the existence of a Sigma, Gamma and Delta. The first two had vague descriptions somewhere in the system, though not helpful enough to catch them.

Omega seemed to catch onto her silence.

“Heard of me, have you?”

“Should I have?”

“If you have, you know that Leonard’s little secrets run deep.”

“That doesn’t tell me much. If you’re saying he’s a Sigma or Gamma or—“

There was a derisive snort on the other end before O’Malley said, tone affronted, “He is not a Gamma.”

“Whatever, if he’s a -ma or -ga or whatever, my point is that could mean a lot. Arms dealing? Other smuggling? Hacking? Murder? You’re expecting me to believe without proof that Leonard’s involved in that?”

“Why not? He’s already lied to you once. What did he tell you to cover up the ‘Leonard’ slip?”

“Said it’s his middle… wait, slip?”

“Oh, the last name is close, but not quite there.” There was another snort before, “Kerk is so unsubtle. You want to know the real Leonard? Just try looking up Leonard and Eddie Church.”

“I think you’re mixing up shit. That’s my last name, not his.”

“Huh. Funny world. Would have been convenient if you’d gotten married. But look it up. You won’t get anything looking for Ritchie and Otto Kerk.”

"Why would I believe you?"

"You know something is off about Leonard, don't you? You know he lied about why he missed that dinner. And I’m sure he’s not a great liar. But you want proof? I can give you proof, though only if you hurry. It’ll burn soon. Of course, maybe you don’t want to catch him. Maybe you’d want to delay catching one alpha wolf until he’s torn the other to shreds.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? If he’s doing shit, I want to know.”

Tex’s tone came out confident, but she was more unsure on the inside. She didn't even know who Omega really was. Or if he could be trusted. And even barring that... there was part of her who didn't want to know if there was any truth to what he was saying. Part of her who wanted to pretend ‘Ritchie Kerk’ was exactly who he pretended to be.

"Why're you telling me this? What do you get out of it?" Tex asked. If only to stall for time.

There was a long pause. Long enough that Tex thought he’d simply hung up. She’d been about to turn off her phone when she heard a long, slightly shaky intake of breath.

“Because they took away something I prized. And I want them to suffer,” he said.

Part of her didn't want to hear it... but the rest of her was wondering just how many lies Leonard had fed her.

Tex hesitated for one more moment, pen hovering over her notepad. "Give me the address."

 

* * *

 

“Remind me again why it’s my job to do this.”

“Because Meta is needed to guard Price, Omega is needed to keep an eye on Epsilon and make sure no medical complications occur and I do not want Theta near fire.”

“So why didn’t you do it?” Church grumbled into his phone as he trudged around the now empty safehouse.

There was a long pause before Delta said, “I also do not want to be near fire.”

“Fuck you.” Church checked the basement, looking at all the gasoline and at the little packages that would cause localized explosions, just in case the fire didn’t cleanly scour the house enough. Delta had wanted nothing left to chance. “The only reason I’m agreeing to this shit is because I don’t trust you to not shoot anyone on your way out.”

“Who would I shoot?”

“You’d find a way.”

“I do not appreciate these implications that I am a gun-toting maniac.”

“Then don’t be a gun-toting maniac, asshole. I’m hanging up now, I’ll be done in a few minutes.” Church hung up. As he looked at his phone before closing it, he noticed the call history had two recent calls to Tex. Huh. Had he called her again? ...That was probably from last night or something, though.

He shut his phone and stuck it in the pocket of his hoodie before yanking the hood up. He didn’t want anyone giving a description of him to the police if they saw him fleeing. He pulled up a bandana he’d fastened around his neck to cover his lower face as he walked upstairs.

Gasoline trailed through the entire house, with those little bundles of explosive shit placed in strategic locations. Church hoped it wouldn’t do too much damage to the surrounding area. Far as he knew, most of the surrounding buildings weren’t inhabited, but even so… Delta had been insistent that only their safehouse should get destroyed. But Church didn’t trust most of what Delta said right now.

 

* * *

 

“So some crazy person just happened to call you. Tell you about an elaborate conspiracy happening in this building. And we’re just gonna drive over there without even checking with anyone else?”

“There’s no time to ask around,” Tex said, hands on the wheel as the other cop watched her skeptically. “What’s the worst that can happen? If I’m wrong, it’s a few minutes wasted. If I’m right… well, then I’m right. And being right is amazing. So shut up.”

“Not very professional, Alliso—“

“Never. Call me. Allison.”

“Tex is a guy’s name.”

“Well, Tex ain’t a guy—look.” Tex squinted at the next street. Smoke was billowing from one of the buildings. “Told you so.”

As they pulled up, she saw that flames were already licking the windows and smoke was pouring out heavier every minute. Too fast to be an accidental fire. The other cop picked up the radio and started talking into it.

“We got a fire down here, possible arson, we need—Allison, what the fuck are you doing?!”

Tex had already jumped out of the car. “There might be someone in there, I’m going in.”

“Are you insane?! Get back here, wait for the fire department!”

Tex wasn’t listening. She kicked open the door.

 

* * *

 

Church threw the lit match at the gasoline. Unfortunately for him, he was standing far too close to it. It flared up immediately and the flames scorched his hand. Church yelped and shook his hand, staring at the burns.

"Son of a fucking bi—"

The flames were catching onto the rest of the gasoline very quickly. Too quickly. They reached the room Eddie had been resting in within a few seconds. The resulting explosion was, as Delta predicted, not too large. Enough to scour the inside of the room without crumbling the house immediately. But the noise… the noise caused Church's ears to ring, and even the small explosion was too close. It sent him stumbling back.

"Oh god! God, my ears!"

He didn't know how long he had his hands clasped over his ears, unable to concentrate on anything but the goddamn ringing.

All he knew was that he snapped out of it when the door slammed open. And in the doorway stood Tex.

There was one split moment when they stared at each other. And Church knew that despite the fact he had his face covered and a hoodie over his head... she knew it was him. She mouthed something. Or maybe she said it out loud. Church's ears were still ringing.

But Church knew what she'd said, even though he couldn't hear.

'Church.'

She knew.

He turned around and ran for it. Even though he knew he couldn't outrun Tex. He had to try.

He made it a few feet from the house before the next explosion went off. Part of the roof collapsed. He looked back to see what had happened to Tex. She'd been knocked aside by the force of the explosion, and had her hands clasped over her ears like he had not long ago. But she was fine otherwise. Just momentarily stunned.

Church took the chance. He climbed over the back fence and ran quickly through the alleyway, taking all the shortcuts he’d memorized during his wandering of the area while trying to escape Wash’s screaming in the basement. By the time Tex had gathered her wits enough to follow, he’d looped around to where he’d parked the car, ready to escape in.

It was still close. When he got into the car, started it up and slammed on the accelerator, Tex appeared from a different alleyway. Either knowing the area well enough, seeing enough glimpses of him fleeing or just being really damn fast, one way or another she’d caught up. But even she couldn’t keep up with a car on foot.

Church sped away, and as he did he saw Tex watching him go. Already reaching for her radio.

Church spent the whole trip to the new safehouse just... shellshocked. Both from the explosions—his ears were still fucking ringing—and from the fact that Tex had been there. How had she known? She didn't even know his address, he'd always gone to her place. How did she know who he really was? He hadn't used the name Church in any official way since he was nineteen.

He remembered his call history. Three calls to Tex. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he properly looked at the times. The first two, he remembered. That was him trying to explain where he'd been. The third was too recent for it to have been him, and he’d… he’d left his phone lying about like a fucking idiot. More focused on Eddie than on security.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid,” Church groaned, throwing his phone into the seat next to him.

That was it, then. That was fucking it. Whatever had been between him and Tex was over. It didn't get much more over than being caught blowing up his own house and being called out on a name he hadn't really used since killing his father.

The last trace of normalcy he had in his life was gone now. It had all gone to shit.

 

* * *

 

O’Malley silently checked over Eddie’s stitches. Unfortunately, they looked clean and uninfected. Pity. He’d love to see Eddie squirm and rot from the inside out, especially given recent events. He was still fuming. Sending Church to his likely capture hadn’t done anything to dull his anger.

“Omega?” Epsilon said, sounding tired and nervous.

“Shut up.”

“But—“

“Shut up.”

“I just wanted to say sorry...” Epsilon muttered. O’Malley paused for a moment to glare at him.

“Wow. What would you ever be feeling sorry about? First your older brother ruins my career by breaking into my house, and now your stupid, naive attempts to free someone who could have gotten us all arrested have gotten the only person I give a damn about killed. But oh, since you wanted to say sorry? I suppose I should just forgive you.”

“I was going to blindfold him.”

“But you didn’t,” O’Malley muttered. “You’re lucky everyone in this group are such brutish thugs, so open to threatening when someone has a reasonable objection. Because believe me, I would have left your worthless, traitorous corpse bleeding on the floor had it been my choice.”

Epsilon frowned before shutting his eyes. “Nevermind, then. Jesus. I was just trying to apologize.”

“You’re such a child. If you ask me, that’s all this little group is. A bunch of idiots bringing their little brothers along and other people paying the price.”

O’Malley resisted the urge to press down on the stitches and make Epsilon squeal. Meta was nearby, and wouldn’t hesitate to break his neck. He had to be patient. Wait until Epsilon found out that his dear brother wouldn’t be coming back because he got caught taking actions that Epsilon’s foolhardy release of Wash had made necessary. Then, perhaps, he’d feel happy enough to laugh. Right now, he just felt numb and bitter. He wasn’t sure what the precise feeling was.

Just as O'Malley was pondering this, the front door slammed open. And they all heard Church yell.

"O'Malley! You fucker, I know that was your fault!"

...Well, that was just disappointing.

O’Malley turned around and stood in time to see Church barge through the door, looking absolutely livid. There were burns on his hands.

“You. Fucker,” Church growled, teeth gritted.

“What are you babbling about?”

“You told Tex! You told her and… and fucking ruined everything!”

“And you’re just accusing me with no proof? That seems to be something this little group loves doing nowadays,” O’Malley muttered.

“Who else would?! The evidence there would have condemned all of us, you fucking idiot! You’re the only one nuts enough to—“

“To what? Gun down Gary with circumstantial evidence?”

“Delta fucking found proof!”

“What Delta found was a name in some files. Names can be faked. Codenames, in particular. I know—knew—Gary. What I knew about Gary is that he was wholly selfish. Manipulative. Honestly, it was what made him fun.” O’Malley paused, collecting himself, before continuing. “But there was nothing to gain from him betraying us. If we’d been dwindling at the time of the ambush, perhaps he would have traded us in for greener pastures. But our misfortune started before that. He wouldn’t have ruined a good deal.”

“And that makes betraying us alright, does it? You want to join him that fucking badly?” Church snarled.

“I’d say it gives me an understandable motive.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, fuck you! Meta!” Church yelled. There was a faint growl from the room they were keeping Price in. “Need your help with something!”

O’Malley’s heartbeat, to his annoyance, sped up a little. But even so, he kept his gaze level with Church’s.

“You won’t kill me.”

“Why the fuck not?!” Church raised his voice and yelled, “Meta! Get me a fucking gun!”

“You owe me,” O’Malley said. “I saved your little half-wit of a brother. Without me, he’d be dead. And he’d fucking deserve it. No-one would have missed him.”

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Epsilon wince and look away.

“Shut the fuck up!” Church yelled.

Meta appeared in the doorway, looking confused and wary. Church looked at him and opened his mouth to say something, but Epsilon spoke first.

“Leo?” When Church looked at him, not saying anything, Epsilon hesitated before saying, “I don’t want anyone else to die. ...Not even a shitbag like O’Malley.”

O’Malley might have grinned under normal circumstances. But the fact that Epsilon, a naive and ignorant slug of a child, was the only one stepping in for him… that just made him feel sick to his stomach.

Church shut his eyes. He was red in the face. But after a long moment, he opened them and spoke in a stilted voice that suggested he was actively restraining his accent.

“If I let you go, you’ll just keep telling the cops where we are.”

“That’s no fun, Alpha.” A slight flicker of a smile crossed O’Malley’s face. “I only told Tex because she was your girlfriend. Because it was fun to ruin that for you. But I’ve already ruined it, and bringing the cops here is just so… impersonal. In fact, really… you getting caught by the cops isn’t a big deal. What do you know about me, really? But Delta being caught by the cops… that’s a little more troublesome. As long as you’re with him, you don’t have to worry about the police.”

Church squinted at O’Malley, then stepped to the side. However, when O’Malley took a step towards it, Church put out an arm to bar his way.

“Listen, asshole. I’m only going to say this once. The only reason you’re going free is because Epsilon wants it. Any debt for saving him is done. But you don’t show your face again. I hear a whisper of you saying shit you shouldn’t, then you’re fucking dead. And Delta… Delta’s a completely different matter and he’s far better at tracking people down. So… you better fucking run while you have the chance.”

“You’re too kind,” O’Malley said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

O’Malley mostly meant what he said. He could so easily call the cops to that location. But he wouldn’t. That would just ruin any revenge against Delta, throwing him in prison like that. And there was that saying. Revenge was a dish best served cold. Messing with Church… it hadn’t had much fun to it. He couldn’t have fun in this state. Not when this numb feeling was in his stomach.

Perhaps he needed a break.

 

* * *

 

"One more."

"No. Fuck off."

"Once we have terminated the Director, I will let you leave. But I require your help for this. We are already too low in numbers," Delta said. "You and Meta are the only ones who can work in the field now."

"What about Theta? He can still shoot."

"I am not allowing it. He... is less mobile."

"You're just feeling protective and shit, aren't you?"

"Regardless, he is still less mobile."

Two days after the fire they were sitting on the floor of the new safehouse, as it had very little furniture. It had one chair that was falling apart and a couple of beds. That was it. It was all Theta could locate on such short notice.

"Ugh, not the point. It's always just 'one more,'" Church grumbled. "One more, one more, one more. Soon it's been a hundred more, and the next one is still 'that last one.' Fuck off, I'm not doing it. Me and Eddie are leaving. Don't know where we're going, but we're getting the hell out while we still can."

"I understand that you are upset, but..."

"Goddamn right I'm upset! Fucking O'Malley."

"Please stop shouting," Eddie grumbled, just loud enough to be heard a room away.

"If you quit now... then all the deaths and injuries would have occurred for no reason," Delta said slowly. "All the difficulties... you losing your girlfriend, the torture of Washington, Sigma... it would all have occurred for no reason at all. I will not let that happen."

Church scowled, looking down at his hand. It was bandaged because of the burns he'd received. His hearing also wasn't quite right after that explosion, though it was mostly back to normal.

"And what's gonna happen if we do go ahead with it? Sure, we might kill the Director. Big fucking whoop. And if we don't, then we fail. Then the Director's men probably kill us and we all... you know... fucking die! And then it'll still be for nothing! But I suppose you're gonna shoot me if I disagree!"

"Will you stop implying that I am a trigger-happy simpleton?" Delta muttered.

"Guys, I can hear you. Can't you argue quieter? I shouldn't be able to hear you this far away," Eddie said.

"And we shouldn't be able to hear you, but these walls are really thin. I could probably punch through the damn things," Church muttered.

"Alpha..."

"Besides, what the hell am I supposed to do? It's not like I'm particularly good at this garbage."

"You keep your head. You do not freeze up or panic. You do not get overly trigger-happy or bloodthirsty, like Meta. I do not want to shed more blood than is necessary..."

"Too late for that."

"But the Director must be dealt with. I doubt he will let us be if he discovers our location. If I were in his position, I would want to terminate any loose ends. It is for our own safety as much as it is for vengeance and personal gain. And if you must die, would you rather do it in his house, face to face and prepared to fight, or would you rather wait until he finds both you and Epsilon and murders both of you in your sleep?"

Church considered this for a few moments before saying, "Shit."

"I will assume that is an agreement. Now, will you help me interrogate Price?" Delta gestured at the door of the room that housed Price. Church didn't move forward.

"Look. If I do this... if I get rid of the Director... I want you to promise that you'll let me and Eddie leave. That you won't try to shoot us—"

"Please stop bringing that up."

"You threatened to shoot me the first time we met!"

"While true, I do not intend to shoot you now. I believe you are trustworthy." Delta paused, before adding, “I also consider you something of a friend.”

“What, an emotion?”

“And now it has been downgraded back to co-worker.”

“God, you’re flaky.” Church pulled a face. "Okay, fine. Doesn't mean I like it. But... yeah, he won't leave us alone if he manages to find us. Okay. Just this, though. No more."

 

* * *

 

Tex was not a detective. She didn’t investigate crimes. She patrolled, she worked her butt off, but she generally didn’t worry about that kind of thing. She liked it when things were straightforward. But she knew how to gather information if she had to.

She did know where to go and who to ask if she did want info, but she had to do it quietly. She was already in the doghouse with her boss after running into a burning building and being vague on why she’d been specifically called for the tip-off. Forensics hadn’t found shit in the building once it finished burning, so all she had to back up it being linked to the Greek letter criminals was that one phone call.

Or so it had been when she started. But now, a couple of days later… a lot of these were clues that only she could have put together, but now that she knew what to look for they were there, clear as day. And it was a picture that Tex didn’t like at all.

At home, she spread out the various files she’d picked up on her desk. The first one was based on the most obvious tip that Omega had given her. The real names of the brothers. That had turned up old newspaper articles.

Ten years ago, Leonard and Eddie Church had vanished from their home. The father of the household had been murdered. The case had never been solved, as by the time they found the corpse any possible lead on the two brothers had gone cold. Domestic murder was suspected but never confirmed. There’d never been too much pressure to solve the case. No family or friends expressing concern. It had been quietly forgotten.

There was no photo of the younger brother in any articles, but there was one of a teenaged Church. There was no mistaking that scowl.

That was enough to arrest Church on, at least for interrogation on where he’d been the last ten years. But that was only the tip of the iceberg, it turned out. Tex pushed the newspaper articles aside, instead collecting what files she’d managed to track down on the Greek letter criminals.

They were well-known, if only because their names had such a distinctive pattern to them. Alpha, Delta, Sigma, Theta, Gamma, Meta (not a Greek letter, so there had been some debate over whether he qualified, but the name was close and Meta had been known to associate with the group as muscle).

Tex couldn’t find shit on Omega, apart from an off-hand mention here and there. Usually associated with the group as a whole or, occasionally, paired with reports on Gamma. Or an unknown stranger sometimes assumed to be Gamma, as Gamma seemed to rotate through a whole variety of appearances and witnesses never gave the same description twice.

The others, there were descriptions here and there. Delta’s appearances abruptly cut off at about twelve years ago, although he still retained an active presence online. Theta’s appearances were sparse. And Alpha was someone who’d only appeared in reports over the last few years. Descriptions were sparse and vague, though he was noted by the rare witness they’d caught to be ‘foul-mouthed.’ No-one would be more specific, likely out of fear.

Foul-mouthed wasn’t unique to Church, but Omega had used the term ‘alpha wolf.’

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

Tex picked up a sheaf of photos and sketches. The criminal in this group with the longest stretch of activity and the most appearances was Sigma. Unlike Gamma, Sigma didn’t seem to disguise his appearance. It wasn’t particularly noteworthy, either. But everyone said the same thing. Bald with light brown eyes. Almost orange. People always described the eyes as ‘a little creepy.’

Nothing on its own, until she’d thought about her first meeting with Church. Club Errera. She’d been there with Carolina. Arguing about something. They always did when they were forced to interact. (It had been York’s idea. One of his attempts to get them to be friendly. Not that he knew shit about what really bothered Tex, about what Carolina really did for work.)

They’d been arguing. And then a man had dragged Church over, deposited him in the chair nearest to Tex before grabbing Carolina and steering her away. A bald man with those same near-orange eyes.

And that, in turn, led her to one final file. Discovered when looking through any recent big crime, trying to see if there was a pattern. Any suspected activity by the Greek letter criminals went completely cold around three months ago. And this autopsy report had turned up not too much later.

A body that had been identified as Stefan Siegfried, though the name sounded a little false to Tex. Found in a drug den, a bullet in his brain. Forensics insisted that he hadn’t died in the den, however. That there hadn’t been blood splatter like there should have been. That he’d clearly been there for some time given the state of decomposition he’d been in when found. They placed his death as the same day that Carolina had been shot. The two attacks hadn’t been linked because they’d been so far apart, and shootings weren’t rare in this city. The photo matched the description of Sigma—and other detectives had already linked him as a possible match—but Tex recognised it as the man who’d talked to Carolina the night before.

All the evidence was there, ready to be looked at.

Tex wasn't sure what it all meant. But there were clearly connections between Church, Carolina and the deceased Sigma. And since Church was the only one alive out of these three, she had to assume the worst.

Had he been responsible for Carolina?

Tex's fists were clenched on the desk. She liked to pretend that nothing mattered to her, because she was a badass island among a sea of douchebags. But some things did matter. Carolina was one, despite the distance that had formed between them. And maybe Church had been another one. But she felt betrayed right now. She felt dirty, like she'd just sat in something unpleasant.

Because not only had Church possibly shot her sister, but Tex had... well, they'd been together, with everything that entailed... the drinking and the sex and the tolerating of each other's presence... And the day she’d met the Director at the hospital, even though Tex had started a huge fight with Church that day, he'd returned a week later and they'd been fine, and she'd... been grateful for it...

And all this time, it was his fault.

Tex unclenched her hands only to cover her face with them.

“You stupid fuck,” she muttered. She wasn’t sure whether she was talking to Church or herself.

One alpha wolf tearing apart another…

They had to be going up against the Director. That… that complicated matters, though not in the way that Omega had suggested. If Church really was the Alpha, if he really was bringing the fight to the Director… maybe he’d find wherever the Director had disappeared to.

Maybe, then, Tex could somehow track Church. He’d lead her to the Director, and then she could call the cops on him like she should have so many years ago. Before it had ruined Carolina, ruined everything. Maybe if she followed Church to the Director, Tex could find Carolina again. See if she really was dead, or whether she was just being kept out of sight.

But…

But she couldn’t let Church slide, just so he’d do the dirty work for her. Not after what he’d done. No matter what she wanted, or what had been between them, she was a cop. And he was a criminal.

This would only end one way.

Tex raised her face from her hands to scowl at the files. The only issue was somehow showing this all to her superiors without tipping them off as to how she had put the pieces together.

 

* * *

 

Church had wondered if his decision to bring Price along instead of just punching the location out of him and leaving was a good one. But it seemed a better one the more information that Price gave them. He was also starting to suspect that trying to punch the information out of Price wouldn’t have worked. The dude was just too fucking calm. Church got the impression that if he set Price on fire, the reaction would be a bemused stare and a few questions about what the psychological reasons for burning him alive were.

Now, he stared down at the sheets of grid paper that Price had scribbled a layout on. He’d drawn in guard patterns, points of entry, where the cameras were, the Director’s favoured spots… everything they’d need to know.

As Price kept drawing, Church glanced at Delta. Delta had his arms crossed and was staring at one of the dots that marked a preferred place of the Director’s. He had that look, the same look of barely suppressed fury he’d had after Sigma’s death. He’d been wearing that look a lot lately, the closer they got to finally tracking the Director down. Fuck, Church had thought he was the next one in line to be shot after admitting that—against all rational sense—he’d let O’Malley just waltz out.

Whatever. After this job it wouldn’t be any concern of Church’s what Delta did.

Price pointed at the back of the layout, where he’d circled an area in red.

“The quickest access to the wiring would be here, and requires minimal evasion to avoid the cameras on the way there.”

“That’s fucking convenient,” Church muttered.

“It’s convenient by design.” Price paused, then added, “I commissioned the hideout and handled a lot of the security measures myself. It doesn’t hurt to leave a back door open in case of disloyalty. Or in the case of… well.” Price gestured at Church.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a two-timing asshole, we get it. You know what happens if you two-time us, right?”

“I would assume death.”

“For starters.”

“If we do not come back, Theta will know who to blame and how to retaliate,” Delta said.

“Understood,” Price said, after eying Delta calmly for a few seconds. He drew in another guard before pointing out a room. “Personally, I would place a high chance of him being in this room. The Director has a large collection of videos that he often watches on repeat, and he’d been doing so more often as of late.”

“Videos? Like porn?” Church asked. “Gross.”

“That was not what I—nevermind.” Price drew in a dotted line throughout the layout. “If you follow this path, you should just manage to slip past the majority of the guards. If he’s in that room, he will not have guards there with him. But there will be two outside. You will have no choice but to eliminate those two.”

“Not a problem,” Church said.

“It may be a problem with your level of firearm skill,” Delta corrected.

“Shut up, that was a fluke.”

“Meta will be on hand. If you do not finish the job, he will.”

After more discussion, Church and Delta tied Price back up again and called Theta in to keep an eye on him. It was only once they were far away from the room that Church spoke.

“What do you think we should do with him? Afterwards, I mean?”

“I would think that should be obvious,” Delta said.

“We’re gonna get a reputation as backstabbers if we kill him. But I don’t really like the idea of leaving him alive. Dude’s creepy, and… well, what if he noticed Eddie? He shouldn’t have, but...” Church trailed off.

“We cannot get a reputation as backstabbers if no-one knows he was ever with us,” Delta said. “If all goes to plan, no-one will know he was involved. No-one will know we went back on our word.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we have bigger problems.”

“Yeah, true.”

 

* * *

 

"So, we're leaving?"

"After the Director is dealt with. This shit isn't gonna end well if I keep it up," Church said. Eddie just slowly blinked at him. He'd spent a lot of the last couple of days sleeping, and always seemed somewhat drowsy. "I really don't want to leave you here again, but..."

"It's fine. Theta will be here, right?" Eddie muttered.

"Yeah. Still doesn't feel right..."

"It'll be fine. You won't be gone for that long, right?"

"I hope not. Anyway, once you're good to move, we'll just... go. Somewhere. I dunno. Where do you want to go?"

"I dunno. I still like it here. Not the criminal stuff, but... I mean, Dee and Theta and Meta are pretty much the only people I know besides you that I actually like. Well, the ones still alive, anyway."

"Meta still disturbs me. He keeps staring and growling."

"But it's like being friends with a really big cat. Like a puma. Except more fun to talk with."

"Well, that's just weird. Anyway, we gotta go somewhere, so think of a place because I've got absolutely no clue. And then I gotta get some kind of legitimate job. Crap, I don't know how to do anything." Church groaned and flopped down onto the floor, putting his hands behind his head. "God, it's gonna suck. How am I supposed to explain being a twenty-nine-year-old with no job experience who is apparently worth hiring?"

"That seems like it's gonna be a fucking bitch," Eddie said sleepily.

"Massive bitch."

There was some silence before Eddie asked, "You alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"There's a lot of reasons, everything's kinda generally shit. But I was referring to the Tex thing."

"Fuck her, she was a bitch anyway," Church muttered bitterly.

"Yeah, but..."

"Seriously. I don't... I don't want to think about her."

But now that Eddie had mentioned it, Church was stuck thinking about her again. Why the fuck did she have to be a cop? Of all the things in the world... hell, dating a prostitute would have been better. Why'd she have to find out?

There had been some vague idea floating around Church's head about quitting crime and sticking around Tex before the fire. She'd been the only normal thing left in his life. Even Eddie... Church loved his little brother more than anything, but the lengths he had to go to keep Eddie around weren't normal. With Tex, there weren't any strings like that. He didn't have to worry about things when he was with her... all that was over now. And Church hadn't been ready to let it end, dammit.

Once Church left Eddie's room, passing Meta who was heading in there, he just kept wandering around the almost bare hideout. He tried to think about anything besides Tex. But he couldn't.

Eventually, he turned around and left the hideout, heading for the nearest phone box. When he reached it, without really thinking, he put some coins in and dialed Tex's number. He would have used his mobile, but he'd discarded it after the fire since there was no-one else worth calling anymore.

The phone got picked up quickly.

"What?!"

"Tex?"

A long moment of silence. So long that Church had started to wonder if the phoneline had been cut somehow.

Finally, Tex said, "You fucking cockbite."

"Yeah, uh... yeah."

"What do you want? Unless you're calling to turn yourself in, I'm not interested."

"I can't do that."

"Can too. Then what do you want, asshole?"

"I... I don't know." Church hadn't really given it any thought.

"How could you not know?"

"I don't know, dammit! I just... I just... seriously, I don't know why I'm calling."

"Yeah? That your excuse for everything? Does that cover all the murders?"

"How much do you know?"

"Well, there's Siegfried."

"Who?"

"That guy who introduced us, cockbite! Did you kill him?"

"Sigma? No! Why would I kill him? He was... okay, he was creepy, but... no, he was killed by someone called Carolina!"

There was a long sigh on the other end. "How's that make sense? They were talking the day before, weren't they?"

"They... eh?"

"You were there. Your 'Sigma' friend dragged you over, introduced us and then carted away my sister. And the next day, she turns up full of bullet holes."

"...Carolina's your sister?" Church mumbled.

So it could have been worse, after all.

"She was. She isn't anything any more. Thanks to you." The fact that Tex hadn't yelled that at him made Church realise that she was far beyond her usual 'swear and throw things' method of anger.

"Whoa, wait. I didn't kill her, okay?"

"Then who did, Church?"

"I... I..." Church shut his eyes and leaned against the phone. "I... can't say."

"Why? If it wasn't you—"

"Look, sister or not... she tried to shoot us, alright? And... the guy who did it... she shot his best friend and his little brother. And you know what? She could have easily let us walk, we were trying to get the fuck out of there. Can you really—"

"Yes. Yes, I can still blame you. And come on. Little brother? You doing the old 'it was really me but I'm claiming it was a friend' thing?"

"No! Like I'd take Ot—shit, you know, might as well just say his name—like I'd take Eddie anywhere that dangerous, he didn't get shot. Look... I've done a lot of bad shit. I know that, alright? It isn't a fucking picnic. I just did it to protect Eddie."

"Killing people is your way of being a good big brother, is it?"

"Yes! Look... I know I don't deserve to walk free. But..."

"That's right. And you're not going to walk free. You're going down."

"I'm quitting, alright? I'm done with all this garbage."

"Oh, well, why didn't you just say so?" Tex said sarcastically. "In that case, every shitty thing you did is forgiven! The law doesn't work that way, douchebag. It's not a game that you can quit when you get bored of it. This is gonna end with you in a prison cell. And that's the best case scenario, asswipe."

"Come on, Tex... If you find me and charge me for all the stuff I've ever done... then the Director or one of the fuckton of people I've pissed off over the years will be able to find me. And if they can find me, they can find Eddie. I don't care what happens to me, it's him I'm worried about! Someone already stabbed him! ...Uh. That's actually why I skipped out on the steakhouse thing. Guess it doesn't matter if you know, now."

"So, what? You think after all the smuggling, murder, arson and setting me up at steakhouses... you think I'll just go 'you're forgiven' and let you walk off? Do you think quitting will undo the shit you did?"

Church hesitated, before letting out a long sigh. “...I guess not. Had to try, right? I guess… I guess I’ll just have to not let you catch me, then.”

"Yeah, good luck with that. Because it's not happening."

"For what it's worth, Tex..." Church rubbed his forehead. A headache was building. "I'm really sorry that... that this shit happened. And..."

Church wanted to apologise for a lot. To say sorry for lying. To say sorry for what Delta did to Carolina. To say sorry for making it so impossible for them to stay together and for never saying just how much she meant to him, even though they hadn't known each other that long... but Tex interrupted before he could say anything else.

"Yeah, you know what? I don't care."

Tex hung up. Church stared at the phone for a few minutes before hanging up and slowly walking back to the safehouse.

 

* * *

 

One week later, it was time. One way or another, this would finish tonight. Hopefully, it would finish with the Director dead. With Church and Eddie being able to leave and… and maybe do things right next time. Maybe set up a normal life, even if they had to jump a few more states again to get away from Tex.

Right now, in the few minutes before they left, Church sat next to Eddie’s bed. He was awake more often, but he was still too hurt to get out of bed. Right now, he was asleep. He’d been awake all day, and yet when Church really wanted to speak to him…

Church couldn’t shake the feeling that something would go wrong. There were too few of them left. Theta would be staying to watch over Price and Eddie. To kill Price if he’d lied, to make sure Eddie was safe. That left only Church, Delta and Meta. And Delta would be staying in the van, keeping an eye on the cameras. Church and Meta, faced with a house full of guards and only some tips from Price to survive on.

So many places that could go wrong.

Church just wanted Eddie to wake up, so he could… fuck, say something. Just make sure Eddie would be alright if something went wrong. Maybe tell Eddie that he loved him. For all that he’d sacrificed for his little brother, Church had never really told him that.

Church reached over to try and nudge Eddie awake, but reconsidered it. Fuck if he’d be interrupting the kid’s sleep. He needed it.

“Alpha? We are waiting on you,” Delta said, appearing in the doorway.

“Fuck. Right, okay, just… gimme a few more seconds.”

Normally, Delta would have told him all about how those few seconds would cause a schedule slip that might break a mission. This time, he just nodded and left.

Church sat there for a minute longer, hoping and not hoping that Eddie would wake up. Listening to him breathe. Then he took one more glance at Eddie and headed out the front door.

He spotted Theta as he was leaving, watching him from the doorway to where Price was being held. Church gave him a nod. Theta had to be worrying about shit, too. Church was kind of annoyed at Delta’s insistence that Theta stay back. Theta was a good shot, better than any of them. But at the same time, he understood why Delta wouldn’t allow it. Hadn’t Church not allowed Eddie to take proper part in this business for the same reasons?

 

* * *

 

The drive to the Director's house was silent. Church sat in the back of the van with Meta. Meta wasn't expressing any emotion at all. He was holding a rifle, but for some reason he'd taped a knife to the top of it. The only movement he made was checking and re-checking the 'knifle.' At the front of the van, Delta was driving and staring ahead. Face set. Not even blinking. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, the only hint that he was feeling any emotion at all.

The van slowed to a stop. They were still far down the street, but they could see the Director's house from here. It was big and fancy, but not in an 'in your face' kind of way. But there were plenty of cars parked in the driveway. Most likely belonging to the bodyguards.

"Meta. Proceed," Delta said quietly.

Meta growled quietly, putting on his headset. Then he slipped out of the van and headed towards the house, quickly fading into the shadows. Delta adjusted his own headset to confirm it was working. Judging by the lack of reaction, there was no noise on Meta's end.

Delta was still gripping the steering wheel tightly. His lips moved soundlessly. If Church hadn't known Delta so well, he might have thought it was a silent prayer. But since it was Delta, he assumed Delta was just reminding himself of the logical reasons why this would work. His eyes were focused on the laptop he'd brought with him, which was open in his lap.

One noise came through. A choking sound. Hrnk.

"Meta? What's your status?" Delta asked.

There was a moment of silence before Delta's headset made a soft, almost purring noise. It sounded like Meta's attempt to whisper.

"...Affirmative. Continue."

"What's going on?" Church asked.

"Guard. Meta eliminated him."

"I almost feel sorry for the guy."

Delta didn't reply. He just waited. There was another couple of minutes of silence. Then Delta's laptop screen flickered, and security footage appeared on it. Delta started tapping the keys, and the screen cycled between cameras.

"Price was correct. The guards are where he said they would be," Delta murmured. He finally clicked over to an office. A desk, chair and a large screen playing a video that couldn’t be made out from this angle. A man was sitting at the desk, watching the screen. The room was dark, but the light from the screen illuminated dark hair and glasses. “Target confirmed. Meta, get into second position. I will inform you of when it is safe to attack.”

Another soft growl came through.

"Alpha. Your part of the mission starts now. Approach the house. I will tell you when to turn. While Meta clears away the security and secures an exit, you will eliminate the Director." Delta stared at the screen for a few moments longer. “I will not object if you make it hurt.”

“Jesus, Dee. Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Church clambered out of the van and quickly made his way towards the house. Church was worried that someone was going to wander out and see him, but no-one did. He slipped past the fence, which was wooden and about knee-height, and pressed against the side of the garage.

"Okay," Church muttered. "What now?"

"Give me three more seconds," Delta muttered. After a short pause, he said, "I have fed a loop to some of the cameras, but there is no guarantee that the guards will not notice. Enter through the garage, make your way into the hallway and enter the third room on your left. Be as silent as possible."

"No, really, I was going to make as much noise as—"

"Alpha, this is no time for sarcasm."

"Right, right..."

Every nerve Church had felt like it was conducting electricity. He practically had a heart attack when the side door to the garage creaked as he nudged it open.

As he slipped into the hallway, Delta whispered, "A guard is coming. Enter the nearest room."

"What if he goes in—"

“It is not his usual pattern. Move. Now.”

"Okay, okay."

Church ducked into the room, the door creaking slightly as he closed it. The room he entered was a bedroom. He stayed pressed against the wall, listening. He heard footsteps walk down the hallway, and another door open and shut.

There was a pause, before Delta said, “All clear.”

So it continued. Delta directing his movements and leading him out of danger. Everything was going so smoothly that it put Church more on edge than ever. Shit never went this good without problems appearing down the line.

But then he was there. Two guards just around the corner, looking bored out of their minds.

“Meta’s approaching from the other side. Wait,” Delta said quietly. “When I give the signal, kill the guard on the right. Meta will kill the one on the left.”

Church didn’t want to ask outloud what the signal was, given the presence of guards, and so gave a frustrated gesture at the nearest camera, knowing Delta would see it.

“Now.”

Church rounded the corner, seeing Meta do so at the same time. He pointed his gun at the guard. Before the guard could even start to turn around, Church emptied his entire clip at the guard.

He missed every time. There was an awkward moment, during which the bodyguard blinked and stared at him, even as his friend crumpled due to the Meta’s attack. Church cleared his throat.

"Uh. Fuck it." He smacked the guard over the head with the butt of the gun, knocking him unconscious. Not wanting to risk the guard waking up, he stomped on the guy's neck for good measure.

Meta approached, having dealt with his own guard, before raising an eyebrow at Church.

“Shut up,” Church grumbled as he reloaded his gun. “He armed in there, Dee?”

“I cannot see a weapon. He is getting up. Eliminate him.”

Church kicked open the door, secretly a little bit gleeful at the chance to actually kick open a door. Have to look at the positives. He pointed his gun at the man who was halfway up from his chair. The man immediately fell back into the chair, raising his hands.

“Wait, I’m—“

Even with Church’s aim, pressing a gun to a man’s forehead tended to ensure the following bullet actually hit. There was an unpleasant splattering noise, and the Director didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

“...You know, I thought this would be harder,” Church said, lowering his gun and looking at the corpse. “Or… that, I don’t know, it would feel… different? Like, here’s the big crime boss, but...”

Church was interrupted by the Meta shooting the body a few more times.

“...Nice of you to make sure, dude.”

Meta responded by shooting the corpse one more time. The Director was barely recognisable now. Church winced and looked away. His eyes fell on the tape that was playing, that the Director had been watching when he looked at the security footage.

His first thought was ‘oh, of course it would be showing kids.’ The big crime boss has a family. Like that was supposed to make him feel bad.

His second thought was ‘I know those kids.’

“What the fuck?” Church muttered. He took a step towards the screen, watching the two girls on the screen. The same ones as the ones in Tex’s family photo. The redhead—Carolina—could have only been four, and was hitting Tex with a foam bat.

“You’re under arrest!” Carolina yelled, smacking the foam bat against Tex. It didn’t seem to be having much of an effect except to annoy her.

“Quit hitting me, ‘Lina! It’s against the law!”

“Nuh! You’re against the law!”

“Oh, yeah?” Tex asked, before grabbing the bat out of Carolina’s hands. She held it above Carolina’s head. She couldn’t have been much older, but she was bigger. “Take that! I’m a double robber, now!”

“Hey! Cheater! You’re a cheater, Ally!”

“Of course! I’m the robber!”

There was a snickering from behind the camera. It belonged to a woman.

“Alpha?” Delta was speaking. “The guards are moving, they are—“

“Hang on, Dee, just… hang on a sec,” Church said, still looking at the screen. Why would a tape of Tex and Carolina be in the Director’s house, unless…

...God, what the fuck was with this? And he thought his family was fucked up, but—

The camera turned to show a man hurrying over. Church looked at the man, trying to figure out if this was some sort of tape of the future. Maybe it wasn’t Carolina and Tex, and Tex was the one behind the camera. Maybe this was some hypothetical marriage situation. Because Church looked ridiculously like the man on-screen. Only difference was Church didn’t have nerd glasses.

“They get this loophole abuse from your side of the family, you know,” the voice behind the camera said. The man who looked like Church turned and gave the camera a look that was slightly amused, but also carried an undercurrent of ‘not now.’

Church looked at the man on-screen, then looked down at the corpse. The glasses were the same. So was the pale skin and black hair. But the face was all wrong, that could be told from what little was left of it. Even if you accounted for age.

What the shit?

“Alpha?”

“Sorry, right, we’re going,” Church said. “Guards heading this way?”

“Negative.”

“What do you mean, negative? They didn’t hear the gunshots or—”

“They are leaving. When you entered the room, they—” Delta suddenly cut off with a muffled, choking sound.

"Eh? Delta?" Church pressed the headset closer to his ear. "Delta? What's going on?" He heard a crash, and more muffled noises. It sounded like someone had attacked Delta from behind. "Delta? Dee?"

Meta had reached up to touch his headset, looking alarmed. Church glanced at him, before straining his ears to try and hear Delta. He heard nothing.

“...Fuck, we gotta go back. Something’s up,” Church said to Meta. “I think Dee’s been—“

“You don’t have to worry, Alpha.”

Church froze, his blood running cold. “...Price?”

“Delta is quite safe. He has only been chloroformed. I don’t want you to worry, so I thought I’d put your mind at ease.”

“...Fuck. Fuck, how did you… fuck! Theta was—fuck, where’s Theta? Where’s…?”

What had happened to Eddie?

“Theta is currently occupied. If you would kindly hold for a moment?”

There was silence for a couple of seconds, then the shifting sound of a headset being transferred. Theta’s voice spoke up.

“Church?”

“Theta? What happened? How’d he get out? Eddie didn’t let him out too, did he? Is Eddie alright?!” Church asked. Meanwhile, Meta had started pacing the room, one hand on his headset as he walked outside and looked through the nearest window.

“He’s fine. I… I put sleeping pills in his food. I didn’t want him to wake up with no-one there.”

“You didn’t want—“ Church stopped, then his eyes widened. “Oh, son of a bitch.”

There was a shaky breath on Theta’s end. “...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I just...” His voice wavered. He sounded like he was crying. “I have to protect Dee. I have to. The Director was going to catch us, Church. I… I just wanted to make sure Dee would be okay.”

“Son. Of a. Bitch,” Church repeated. “It… it was you. It wasn’t Gamma at all, was it?!” Church pressed his palm to his forehead, suddenly pacing. “Fuck, you… what the fuck have you done, Theta?! You did this? Was it always you, or—“

“Always. I… I set up the ambush. I used Gamma’s name in case Delta started suspecting things, because I knew… I knew he’d accept it was Gamma. But I didn't think that would get him shot! I... I thought..."

"And tonight, Theta? Tonight?"

“...Now you know how I found Price’s address. Why Price was so helpful. The Director… do you really think that this would have worked out if that was really the Director? He’s… he left. He was long gone while we were still torturing Wash.”

“You got Sigma killed,” Church said flatly.

Near the window, Meta lowered his head. He was staring at the floor with such venom that it could have put a hole in the carpet.

“I didn’t mean to."

“You still did!”

“I know! I know. Carolina wasn't meant to shoot any of us. But when the guns started... well, I had to shoot, because everyone else was, but... but I would have been fine. I didn't know Sigma would run out and try to help... She was shooting at me too, do you think I meant for Sigma to run out and... I knew I'd be okay, but he... he ran out... And I didn't think Carolina would shoot us! The Director said... if I gave us up, we wouldn't be killed…"

"And you believed that? Theta, this isn't like stealing cookies from the cookie jar. It's not a 'slap on the wrist' thing! We have been shooting his guys. And he's been shooting ours! You are a fucking idiot, did you really think he was just gonna let us waltz off?!"

"But he promised—"

"He was lying! So, what's your plan, then?” Church demanded. “You’re just gonna leave with Price knowing who we all are? Your face? Delta’s face? You really think you’ll ever be safe? Or are you just going to take Price with you?”

“I’m...” He heard Theta swallow, trying to choke away tears. "I’m going to leave Price somewhere safe, so the Director knows I kept my part of the bargain. I'm going to take this van and drive, and we're going to hide. I don't... I don't care if I have to force Dee into giving this up. He's going to get killed if he stays in this business, and... and I can't let that happen."

Church was pissed. He was beyond furious. But...

"He's... he's protected me all my life. It's my turn now. Even if he'll hate me for it. You... you know what I mean, right?" Theta said.

Church did know. He wasn't so naïve to think the Director would have ever let them go, but if he'd been desperate... maybe he would have done the same for Eddie. No, there was no maybe about it. He would have.

Meta was pacing and twitching. He was getting more agitated by the second. And then he roared angrily. Church tried to see what he was snarling at and heard a voice from just outside, distorted through a megaphone.

"Attention, assholes! Come out with your hands up! We have you surrounded!"

"That's your fault too, isn't it?" Church sighed.

"Sorry. Um, that was... that was kind of why I was talking to you over the mic, so you'd stay still long enough to be surrounded and all. But... but it's just the police. They won't hurt you."

"Really, Theta? Really?" Church mumbled.

His brain ticked over all the possible ways he could escape, and subsequently realised there were no escape routes at all. For Meta, maybe. Meta was a giant puma of a man who could easily bulldoze his way through a few cops. Church wasn't. He was just some guy who got really out of his depth.

He didn't scream or swear as loud as he thought he would. He just kept rubbing his forehead.

There was a shifting noise, and then Price spoke up again.

“So we are clear, Alpha, I thought I should pass this on. The Director has no need to chase you down and murder you. You have done damage, yes. But prison puts you out of the way. Enough that we’re willing to leave it there. Provided, of course, that you don’t go spilling anything you might know. Are we clear? In turn, we will keep any business we know about you to ourselves.” Price paused, then added, “I’m sure you can respect an arrangement like that. Theta seems to think you’d keep your word.”

Church wondered what the fuck Theta was basing that off.

“Fine, whatever. Give the headset back to Theta. I need to talk to him.”

He was trapped. But Eddie was still free. He just needed to make sure Eddie could continue being free.

"Hey, asshole?"

"Yes?" Theta responded immediately.

"Do something for me, alright? Take Eddie with you when you run for it. Make sure he's fine, okay? Director wouldn't be after him, so taking him with won't hurt you and Delta. I don't want him running back to see me and getting himself involved, so... just tell him I was killed, alright? Just... just do that for me. Alright?"

"You didn't even have to ask. Eddie's my friend, do you think I would throw him to—"

"You just fucked us all over, I have fucking doubts, alright?"

"Don't worry. It'll be okay. I'll make sure Eddie's okay."

“Alright. One more thing. ...Can you see the footage?”

“The security cameras? Yeah.”

“Can you see the cops on it?”

“Yeah, they’re… I think they’re about to try and enter. You don’t have long.”

“Do you see a woman with blonde hair cut in a short bob thing?”

There was a long pause. Then Theta said, “Yeah. She’s at the back entrance.”

“Alright. That’s all I needed to know. Now fuck off."

"Alright. ...Bye, Church."

Church removed the headset and tossed it aside. Then he turned to Meta. "You're friends with Eddie as well, right? That's what he said. And you were all protective and shit when he got stabbed, so... if you get out of here, make sure Theta does what he said he would. Make sure Eddie's safe. Can you do that?"

Meta still looked nervous and twitchy, and under it all there was this pale, strained undercurrent of rage. But he nodded.

"Cool. Escape out the back. I... I can't fight my way through that many. No use in us both getting caught, so get lost, alright? Also, if you see Tex... blonde hair, badass vibe... don't hurt her, alright?"

Meta stood still for a moment. Then he reached out and patted Church on the shoulder, the only friendly gesture he'd ever made towards him. Then he left the room.

Church removed a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a miniature version of the plan and map Price had drawn him. He also removed his phone and selected Tex’s number.

 

* * *

 

Outside, Tex felt her phone buzz once in her pocket.

The call they’d gotten was that this was a hostage situation, or possibly something even worse. And the dead body lying near one of the entrances proved that it was for real. So now they were getting ready to sweep the building and check if anyone else was in there. If there were more hostages. More people in danger. There didn’t seem to be any movement that they could see, and they had no idea what was in there.

Tex should have ignored the phone, but the timing felt off. She would have left it anyway, if it wasn’t for a big distraction charging out one of the other entrances in the form of a bald giant with a tattooed head. He just bulldozed his way through the cops there like they were paper dolls.

“Stop!”

“Police, get down!”

A couple of gunshots went off. Tex couldn’t see, as the man sprinted off into the night, if they hit or not. Either way, he didn’t slow down and was drawing a damn lot of attention.

Her phone buzzed again.

No-one had called her lately. Any friends she had on the force were here or working. They wouldn’t call her now. Neither would York, he’d been pretty reclusive lately. Who else was there besides that, except Church?

So, as everyone’s attention was on the mess happening at the other entrance, Tex snuck her phone out of her pocket and checked it.

There was a picture and a text on there. The picture was of what looked like a map. A building layout. Lots of little highlights and entrances. The text read:

 

**Left exit is you. Big highlighted circle close to the middle is me.**

**We need to talk.**

 

The phone buzzed one more time even as she read that. This time, another picture. A screen. A slightly blurry shot of a man and two little girls. They were very familiar to her.

Son of a bitch.

She should have stayed behind. Gone with the rest of her co-workers.

But what if the Director was in there? What if Carolina was being kept in there? What if one of the cops found her? What if Church did? Or had? She… she couldn’t take that risk.

So she took off running into the house before anyone could stop her, only giving cursory glances as she went to make sure no-one was ahead or behind her. She ignored the yell from behind, telling her to come back.

She had her gun out. She wasn’t stupid. This stunk of a trap. If she had to shoot Church, she fucking would.

 

* * *

 

Church stood there and waited, gun pointed at the doorway. He didn’t know if Tex would come. Didn’t know if she’d gun him down if she did. But it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

It was a few minutes before Tex appeared, gun first. She kept her gun pointed at Church from the first moment she entered the room. Church did the same. Tex didn’t say anything for a few moments. Her eyes flickered from the two bodies she’d stepped past to get in, the body of the fake Director sitting in the chair, and the old home video playing in the corner. But after that, it landed squarely on his face.

“Uh. Hey.”

“Is she here?”

“Carolina? I haven’t seen her. I haven’t seen any girls, just… well, you stepped over them.” Church glanced sideways at the tape, before looking back at Tex. “So. Family business, huh?”

“What’s it to you? What do you want? For me to forget I saw you? Or else you’ll, what, tell them all about the family I haven’t talked to in years apart from the few times York pushed me into it?” Tex raised the gun further and took a step forward. “Because you try that shit, and I’ll gun you down. Who will they believe? Me, or you with a bullet buried in your fucking face?”

“Class, Tex. Class.” Church took a step to the side, towards the DVD player playing the video. He turned it off, before ejecting the CD. He raised it. “But this would raise some questions, wouldn’t it? And I could tell them. I could tell them a lot.”

“Were you not listening to me? The whole bullet in your face thing?” Tex snapped.

“You don’t want family involved, right? Or to be involved? Well, neither do I. So I got a deal for you, before the others get here. Can the other cops hear us?”

“Why?”

“I’m gonna take that as a no. Look, I give up. I know there isn’t shit I can do to escape this. So I give up. And I’ll be calm and helpful. Tell them what I was doing here, all that shit.”

“Will you tell them who shot Carolina?”

“I could. If you want that. Not that I really know.” Church shrugged. “I didn’t know his name. Ten years, didn’t learn a guy’s name… kinda fucked, really. Anyway, wouldn’t that raise a lot of weird questions for you?”

Tex took a step forward, grip tightening on the gun.

"Tex, quit being all... menacing and shit. ...I don't even know the name of the guy who killed her, anyway. Codename, yeah, but... not the real name. Just... look, your choice whether you bring that up or not, I won't if you don't. This ain't about that, though. Have you mentioned my little brother to the police?"

Tex shook her head slightly. “I hadn’t even figured out a way to bring most of this shit up to them yet.”

“Then here’s what I want. There was no Eddie. You never saw an Eddie. Whatever else you say or don’t say about me, there was no Eddie.”

Tex squinted slightly. “Why?”

“Because he doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this.” Church wiggled the hand holding the DVD. “Just like you don’t deserve to be caught up in their business. I don’t want anyone I’ve pissed off going after him. It’s easier this way.”

Tex stared at him, before saying, "No. Why should I? You didn't give a shit about my little sibling. Why should I care what happens to yours?"

"I couldn't help what happened to Carolina, okay? Carolina had a gun. She was shooting at us. And the guy who did it had no other choice. But Eddie didn't do anything. He hasn't used a gun in his life."

Tex didn't reply. Her fingers drummed against the handcuffs at her belt.

"Can't trust you on anything, Church," she said quietly. "You're a murderer. A lying murderer who's fucking shielding some asshole from getting called out on Carolina."

"I told you, if you want me to tell the cops that I will, but it won't help and it'll just bring up problems. And lying... lying's not always bad. In Eddie's case, it's the best goddamn thing I can do for him."

"And the murdering?"

"No more murdering. I'm done with it. Promise."

Tex raised an eyebrow. She obviously didn't believe him. So Church carefully put the DVD down before turning the gun to the side, far away from Tex. He pulled the trigger several times. All that happened was the click of an empty chamber.

“I’m not going to shoot you, Tex. And I’m not going to shoot anyone else. Promise. Just… please don’t get Eddie involved in this mess. He deserves the second chance that I couldn’t give him.”

Tex lowered her gun, slipping it into her holster before retrieving her handcuffs.

“Turn around, arms behind your back,” she said.

“Hold up.” Church held out the DVD. “You want this, or…?”

Tex looked at it for a moment, before taking it. She put it away, continuing like that had never happened.

“Leonard L. Church, you are under arrest under suspicion of multiple counts of murder, arson, smuggling, etc.” She locked the handcuffs on his wrists. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.” Tex rattled these off as she finished fastening the cuffs on. “Do you understand these rights as they have been read for you?”

"Obviously, I've heard them on every law enforcement program ever."

"Shut the fuck up."

Tex considered Church for a moment longer. Then she punched him in the face.

“Ow, Tex, what the fuck?” There was another punch, smashing Church’s nose with a rather nasty crack. “Ow, stop it! You’re gonna embarrass me in front of the cops.”

“That was for Carolina. Now get going.”

Church didn't bother to struggle as he was pushed out of the room by Tex. His legs were suddenly very shaky, but he did his best not to collapse on the floor. It was over. He was finished. He'd done all he could, said what he could. It was over.

No more running or killing. Just a lifetime of prison. In a way, it was a relief.

But it sucked in every other way.

 

* * *

 

Meta fled. He ran the long way around to avoid the cops, before heading back to where the van had been. Lot of feelings. Shock. Rage. Fear. Rage was major.

Theta killed Sigma in all but action.

Meta would kill Theta.

Meta would make it right, because that’s what Sigma would want. And, perhaps more importantly, it was also what Meta wanted.

The van was gone once he got back.

Safehouse. Epsilon. Epsilon was in danger. No Theta. No Delta, if he killed Theta. No Alpha. Epsilon was all he had left. Epsilon and one direction from Alpha. Protect him. Protect Epsilon. Meta would do that, because there was no-one else. Because if he didn’t, he would be alone.

He ran as fast as he could. It wasn’t fast enough.

When he got back to the safehouse, Epsilon’s bed was empty. Theta had gotten there before him.

Meta sat on the seat next to Epsilon’s bed, staring at the crumpled, empty sheets.

He’d failed. The promise wasn’t an hour old, and he’d failed. He’d lost Epsilon. He’d lost them all.

He didn’t move from that spot for a long time.

 

* * *

 

**Person Interviewed: Leonard L. Church**

**Date Of Interview: February 12, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 5:27 P.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

 

**Gain: I'd like to ask you about the night your father died. Will you answer my questions?**

**Church: What the fuck am I supposed to do besides that? Besides, I already said I was guilty.**

**Gain: The questions are still necessary to decide the exact charges. Are you going to answer?**

**Church: Yeah, whatever. Thought this part was never gonna come round. Details are gonna be fuzzy, though, it was ages ago.**

**Gain: I understand. Do you remember what led up to the death of your father?**

**Church: Yeah. Killed him.**

**Gain: Describe the events leading up to it.**

**Church: I dunno. We might have been arguing about something. He was always shouting and shit. He’d probably been drinking. He always smelt like he had, so maybe I’m just not remembering right. Anyway, he took a swing at me. I guess… I mean, he’d never done that. Thrown beer bottles, sometimes, but not actually tried to hit me. I freaked out. Grabbed a knife. Stabbed him. Then I realised he’d tell the cops about it, so I cut his throat out.**

**Gain: What about your brother? Eddie?**

**Church: Ah, right... yeah, he was there. Freaked out. He didn't like Dad much, though. Dad was always swearing at him and yelling about how he killed our mum. Er, he didn't. Not on purpose. It was a childbirth thing.**

**Gain: How did he react to the murder?**

**Church: He cried a lot. Dumb kid.**

**Gain: And then what happened?**

**Church: We left. I figured we would go to another state and get new identities or something. But, well... turns out that dragging a six-year-old across a couple of states is hard work. And dumb kid wouldn't stop crying and asking why Dad was leaking ketchup and stuff. It was attracting too much attention.**

**(There was a long pause at this point of the interview.)**

**Church: There was this small town on the way. I don’t remember what it was called, just some random stop. I took Eddie there, and did the whole… you know that book everyone has to read in class? Mice and Men or some shit? Did the whole ‘talk about good things’ thing. Then when he was happy, and not really looking at me, I cracked him over the head with a rock. Tied more rocks to him. Tossed him in the river. Left.**

**Gain: Why?**

**Church: I already told you, didn’t I? He was fucking crying and being a nuisance and shit. He was slowing me down.**

**Gain: No remorse?**

**Church: Well... I'd have to be some kind of monster not to feel any remorse. I mean, he was my little brother. But these things happen. Sometimes you have to leave people behind. Even if it fucking sucks.**

**End of extract. See the full transcript for more details.**

 

* * *

 

Six months after Church had been charged, judged and locked up in Valhalla Penitentiary, Tex came to visit him. It took her several minutes of listening to the guard, Phil, rant about being a single parent and how long the hours were and how unappreciated he was, but she got in. When Church sat down across from her on the other side of that glass screen, Tex couldn't help but swear.

"Holy shit, what happened to your face?"

Church shrugged, while reaching up to touch the side of his face. It was a mass of purple and black bruising, and his eye was little more than a puffy slit. "Uh. It's nothing."

"Like hell it's nothing, who the fuck did that?"

"Uh. There were a lot of them. It's sort of a... six-month build-up." Church's eyes involuntarily flickered over to Phil. "They, uh... they don't take too kindly to child killers in here," Church muttered, looking downwards. "But, well... guess it's karma or something dumb like that. Anyway." Church gazed at her for a moment. He looked tired. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know. Laughing at your suffering, maybe?" The sight of Church like this wasn't hilarious at all, though. Tex had hoped for something cathartic about seeing Church behind bars. (Well, glass.) But she didn't feel anything. She hadn’t really felt much when she’d punched him, all those months ago.

"You don't look that giggly."

"Shut up. Besides, I don't giggle."

"Sure you don't." Church propped his chin on his hands, wincing when he pressed on some of the bruises. "Haven't seen you since... well, y'know."

"Yeah. That was intentional."

"...You didn't tell." He didn't have to specify more than that, and wouldn't have dared in such a public place anyway.

"I know."

"Thanks."

"Eh. People shouldn't have to be dragged down by jerkasses they just happen to be related to," Tex muttered.

She thought of Carolina. She still blamed Church somewhat for it, and he was certainly a goddamn long way from forgiveness. But… well, Church wasn’t the one who’d dragged her into a life of crime to begin with. Maybe it was just easier to blame the Director for it.

“They ever find your dad?” Church asked.

“Like I’d tell you.”

“So, no.” Church wrinkled his nose, deep in thought. He kind of stared off for a bit, before looking at Tex. He looked down again immediately after.

"It's, uh... it's good to see you,” he muttered.

"Not mutual. Sappy jerk."

"What? 'Holy shit, what happened to your face' is the nicest sentence I've heard directed at me since I got locked up in this hellhole."

"That's just depressing."

"Yeah..." Church shrugged. "What isn't? Anyway... uh. What's going on with you?"

"I don't feel like I can complain that much, given your situation. Although I'm on the edge of getting fired right now..."

"What, seriously?"

"Is it a surprise?" Tex started counting off her infractions on her fingers. "I charged by myself into a potentially lethal situation… well, two of them... your fault, by the way. Dated a murdering arsonist... also your fault. Police brutality... also you. And I accidentally punched a guy that was doing graffiti in the face... which I'm gonna blame on you."

"Oh, come on. Also, I only set fire to one building! And that was one I lived in!"

"Still makes you an arsonist. Anyway, I still somehow have a job, but... I'm pretty much this close to getting fired." Tex held her thumb and index finger an inch from each other. "Probably gonna need a new job. They have any guard positions here?"

"Probably. Why would you want to work here, though?"

"Lot of reasons. Not that different from police work. Know a guy here—you know him? York?"

"Oh, that guy. Yeah, he's alright. Hasn't punched me. Erm, I mean—" Church's eyes flickered over to Phil again. "Not that guards hitting me happens at all, and... yeah, definitely not anyone in this room..."

"Yeah, that's the other point. After all the trouble of bringing you in, I'm gonna make sure you stay there, dammit."

"And that's the only reason you don't want me to die?" Church was grinning at her now. He still looked tired, but less so.

"Yeah. Definitely the only reason."

"You sure? Because technically you never actually dumped me—"

"You're dumped."

"Fuck."


	27. Final Flashback - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final flashback out of eight, continued on from the flashbacks shown in Volume 1. This part contains the pasts of the other five.
> 
> Grif is left to heal in hospital, and Simmons has to make some choices. Tucker sets out to get Junior back, no matter what the cost. Caboose deals with the fallout of the mess in his closet. And what Donut thought would be making a simple chicken meal goes all wrong.

**Grif and Simmons**

 

“—and then I whacked him with a baseball bat and he fell over, then I stole his wallet and ran. Didn’t know he was dead. Happy? Can I sleep now?” Grif asked tiredly.

He wasn’t feeling great. Of course, no-one ever felt good after a car accident. Grif was told he’d been lucky. That he’d make a full recovery. He didn’t feel lucky. Everything ached. He’d been concussed, his left arm had pretty much shattered and some of his back teeth were missing. He kept poking the gaps instinctively with his tongue. It felt weird. Anything that wasn’t broken was still pretty battered. If this was lucky…

The moment he was awake and coherent, they sent in Max Gain to get some answers from him. Grif had confessed to the crime on the spot and relegated most of the truth, leaving out Simmons’ involvement in it.

Both Simmons and Sister had apparently arrived at the hospital, but they hadn’t been allowed to see him yet. Max Gain said they’d be allowed in under supervision once the interrogation was over.

“Why did you run, if you intended to be so cooperative?” Gain asked, resting against the wall as he eyed Grif.

“I didn’t want to go to prison, alright? I panicked. I was thinking of coming back when I...”

Grif trailed off, thinking of the kid he’d hit. He didn’t know how they were doing. As if Gain was reading his thoughts, he spoke.

“The man… well, boy, really… is still in critical condition. If they die, you will naturally be charged with vehicular manslaughter amongst your other crimes.”

“Naturally,” Grif muttered. There was some guilt crawling in the depths of his stomach. He could deal with being responsible for Sam’s death, but not the death of some random kid.

“I have one more question, Mr. Grif.” Gain paused, as if letting Grif sweat over what could be coming, before saying, “How did you find the victim? It sounds as if you had no interaction with him beforehand, and you talk as if you just happened upon him in an alleyway. This seems unlikely to me.”

Shit.

“Well, y’know… coincidences and shit,” Grif grumbled.

“...I see. Well, thank you for being… forthright. Even if it was late. I will bring your family here now.”

“Cool, thanks.”

Max Gain left the hospital room for only a few minutes before the door slammed open again and Sister rushed in. She flung himself into his arms, immediately retreating again when Grif’s response was a pained yelp. Immediately after, she started yelling.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid! What the fuck, Grif? What the fuck?!” Then she moved forward again, this time more carefully, and wrapped her arms around him before pressing her face into his shoulder and crying.

“Oh, come onnn...” Grif pat her hair with the non-shattered hand, then gingerly wrapping that arm around her properly to return the hug as best he could. “It’s fine, it’s fine… I mean, okay, it’s shit, but—“

“You’re fucking right it’s shit,” Sister sniffed into his shoulder.

Simmons had slipped into the room while Sister made her noise, and was now lingering quietly and awkwardly in the corner. Grif looked over Sister’s shoulder and met his eyes for a moment, though it proved a difficult task, and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Hopefully, Gain would just see it as a nod of recognition and nothing more.

Simmons’ only response was to look down again. He said nothing.

 

* * *

Days later, Simmons stared through the glass screen that separated him from Grif’s hospital room. The door was locked. Simmons wasn’t allowed to talk to him unless a policeman or a doctor was present. When there was neither, the door was kept locked.

Simmons wanted to talk to him so badly, but at the same time he had no idea what to say. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to say ‘thank you’ or ‘how dare you’ at Grif for taking the fall. He wanted to shout. To yell at Grif about how insane he was for running, crashing, making everything so complicated. Maybe wanted to cry and say something sappy—they never really managed sappy words. Simmons was sure that Grif would probably respond to ‘I love you’ with ‘hah, nerd.’ And if Grif said ‘I love you,’ Simmons would probably just make an awkward excuse to leave. Affection made him uncomfortable sometimes, especially when it went that deep.

Yeah, they did love each other, but that was besides the point.

The point was that he couldn’t do any of this in front of witnesses anyway. He knew he’d spill something.

Simmons rested his forehead against the glass, despite his mind muttering that it was unsanitary to stick any part of your body on glass in a hospital. People had probably coughed on it or something.

He and Sister were taking shifts on keeping an eye on Grif, so she was currently at home. She wasn't taking the whole 'big-brother-in-a-car-accident-and-going-to-prison-for-murdering-her-ex-boyfriend' thing very well. She tried to stay peppy on the outside, but whenever she thought no-one was looking she looked depressed, and she'd somewhat let go of personal hygiene. When she wasn't at the hospital she stayed back in the apartment with her hands covering her face. A huge change from her usual patterns.

Simmons pressed his fingers against the glass as well. He pushed at the glass, wondering how solid it was.

He could break the glass. He could try and get Grif out. But Grif was in no condition to go anywhere. And even if he was, where would they go? Simmons could probably connect with someone who could get them false identification, who could hide them, but that’d be dangerous and probably wouldn’t get them anywhere.

As Simmons pondered this, he heard footsteps behind him.

"Hey."

Sister had turned up. She looked a mess. Normally she wore heavy make-up, kept her hair in perfect order and wore bright and revealing clothes. Right now, she was dressed in crumpled clothes and had perpetual bed head.

"Oh. Hi."

Sister joined him at the window. She also pressed her fingers against the glass.

“Were you thinking about breaking the glass as well?”

“How’d you know?”

“Thought about trying. Could still give it a go. What harm could it do?”

“Well… there’s the whole ‘illegal’ thing,” Simmons sighed.

“Yeah. …Yeah.”

 

* * *

Grif stared up at the lights.

Hospitals were boring. He wondered if he could get the next policeman who showed up to get him some M&Ms. Probably not.

He tried waving his non-broken arm at one of the people outside the room but it hurt too much. He'd have to communicate that he wanted M&Ms with his eyes.

It was better to focus on this completely uninteresting and meaningless situation, rather than thinking about what's going to happen after he gets those M&Ms. The only way he's going to be able to deal with any of this... going to jail, possibly murdering the high schooler that had been driving the pick up truck, leaving Sister behind where he wouldn't be able to protect her anymore... is if he focuses on everything that isn't of any importance.

A tapping sound came from the doorway into Grif's hospital room. A doctor was standing there. A tall, muscular woman with a stern face.

"Dexter Grif, is it?" she said. Her voice was very cold.

"Yeah. What do you want?"

"I'm Doctor Filss. I'm just here to give you an update on the young man you drove into." Grif's throat clenched a little. The face the woman was making did not bode well.

"Uh. Yeah. Hit me."

"He's woken up from his coma, so you will not be charged with vehicular manslaughter. After some arguments, the family decided not to press charges for the damage you did. Since you're going to prison anyway, they decided there was little point in drawing it out."

"Oh. So, he's fine?"

"I didn't say that. I just said there would be no charges pressed," Dr. Filss said coolly. "And that's all the detail I'm allowed to give you. This is the last you'll hear of the accident unless complications arise."

"Okay..."

Once Dr. Filss was gone, he let out a relieved sigh. That was something. It wasn’t a great thing, but it wasn’t bad. Now he just had Sam on his conscience, and that was lighter than a feather.

He could have asked Dr. Filss for some M&Ms, but it hadn’t felt like an appropriate time. And even if it had been, that would just end his light-hearted conundrum, and what else would he have to do?

 

* * *

When Simmons left his room a couple of days later, after a light and uneasy sleep in a too-cold bed, he found Sister sitting on the couch. She was drinking from a bottle of some kind of green alcohol and staring at the television. The television wasn’t turned on.

"Hey."

"Simmons?" Sister gave him a painfully fake smile before patting the sofa next to her. "Come over here. Drink."

“It’s like eight in the morning.”

“So?”

"Anyway, I'm not doing that. Last time was awkward."

Sister rolled her eyes. "I promise there'll be no groping. Like I'd be in the mood to try that again. The only thing you have to suck face with is the Green Fairy." She wiggled the bottle before holding it out.

"What? Oh, whatever, I'm still not drinking."

"Please?"

"Look, I promised Grif I wouldn't."

"So what? Dex isn't here."

Sister had said these words before. Usually when smoking something weird or sneaking a guy into her room. When she said it those times, however, it was with the tone of a teenage girl doing something their parents wouldn't like. Coy and cheeky. This time, it sounded like she was on the edge of tears. It was the tone that made Simmons sigh and sit down on the sofa.

"Fine. Pass it over."

Sister gave him the bottle. Simmons took a swig of the contents and immediately choked and barely stopped himself from spitting it out.

"Oh god, what is that?"

"I told you. Green Fairy. Absinthe."

Simmons wrinkled his nose as he tried to get the taste out of his mouth. However, after a few moments, he decided the taste could be worse and took another sip. This time, he only choked a little. And by the third sip, the taste was bearable. Though it would never reach being pleasant.

But it wasn't like getting drunk normally. There was no talking or eventual drunk giggling or other silliness. There was no groping, either, although for that Simmons was thankful. They both just stared ahead, only moving to pass the bottle back and forth.

Once the bottle was nearly empty, Simmons muttered, "This isn't doing anything."

"Yeah." Sister leaned to the left, reached under the couch cushion and rifled around. "I hid another bottle under here."

"No, I... uh..." Simmons blinked a few times. Things were kinda blurry. The drink was really strong... the kind of drink where Simmons was sure that, if he spilled it on himself, that it would just dissolve his skin and eat right through to the liver.

"I think I've got it. ...No, wait. That's something... plastic-like." Sister pulled something out from under the couch cushion. It was a packet of Oreos that Grif had left there for midnight snacking.

"I told him to stop hiding cookies under the couch. Makes it smell... crumbly. You know?" Simmons said, fumbling over his words somewhat. "It's, uh... Sister?"

Sister had crumpled up the packet of Oreos. Tears had started dripping down her face.

"I don't want Dex to go to prison! Why'd you have to… have to help him?” Sister scrubbed at her eyes before sticking her hand back under the sofa cushion. “Why’d you have to track Sam down? Why? S’your fault.”

"...Yeah. Maybe."

Sister blinked furiously, tears still trickling out, before she finally located another bottle of green alcohol and took a gulp of it. After a few more minutes, she shook her head.

"Sorry. Shouldn't blame you. S'my fault. Shouldn't have... have taken those stupid pills and hung out with dumb dealers wearing stupid sunglasses."

"Yeah. That would have helped." Simmons took the bottle off Sister and took another drink. The room was spinning slightly at this point. "We just gotta... uh. Something. Just gotta make sure of things. Like... stuff. ...I think I'm drunk."

"Yeah. This stuff does that. It's, like, the number one thing for when you want to be completely wasted."

"Look, I know it's... it's probably scary having your big brother not there for the first time ever, and—"

"It's not scary! I'm not scared at the fact that he's not here! I'm scared at the fact that he's gonna be... over there." Sister curled up on her end of the sofa. "They're gonna... gonna corner him in the showers and make him preggers."

"Yeahhh. That's not a good way to have a kid," Simmons said, nodding.

"I mean, I'll do fine. There's this... this thing that runs in the family. Grif-kids are really sturdy. Like, when I was younger, me and Dex went skating on this ice pool... and I fell through and got stuck there for three hours. Some stuff happened. It was crazy. But I lived. And got pregnant, but... well... Can't win everything."

"...What."

"But Grif can't get an abortion in prison. Not even coat-hanger style."

Simmons took a quick gulp of drink before passing it back to Sister. "Okay, so Grifs... Griflings... Griffers... whatever the plural is... are ridiculously tough and fertile. He's... I'm sure Grif'll... uh..."

Simmons was trying to convince himself out loud that Grif would be fine. He couldn't manage it, and not just because he couldn't form coherent sentences.

"I don't want Grif to be a preggers prison bitch..." Sister covered her face again. Her shoulders were shaking. Simmons sighed and wrapped an arm around her.

"It'll... it'll be alright. Somehow."

"I wanna... wanna try and smash open the glass. Bust him out. Run off to Spain. And then we would all become... florists. Because no-one ever expects florists to be murderers. Except in that movie where there was a florist who was a murderer. But that totally wasn't real life. I think."

"That's a stupid idea," Simmons said. Sister passed the bottle to him again. "If... if we did that... then they would just arrest us and we'd also end up prison bitches."

"Preggers prison bitches," Sister mumbled.

A few minutes later, she fell asleep on the sofa. Simmons was left sitting there and watching the room twirl around like a ferris wheel. After a while, he climbed rather unsteadily to his feet. Although it would have been closer to the truth to say he fell out of his chair. He fumbled around the room for a while before locating where the blankets were kept. He found one and returned to the couch, tossing the blanket over Sister. Then he stumbled out the door.

As it turns out, a bottle of absinthe and paint thinner does things to a man's judgment. In Simmons' case, it made leaving without telling anyone seem like a great idea.

 

* * *

"Simmons is gone," Sister told Grif the next day, when she went to visit him in hospital.

"Say what?"

"Last night we were drinking absinthe... and then I passed out because that stuff is bitchin'... and then I woke up and he wasn't anywhere. And he didn't take his phone with him."

"Motherfucker. He ran off! I told him to look after you, and the first thing he does is let you drink absinthe and then run off? Little bitch," Grif muttered.

"Well, I'd already drunk, like, a ton of it. I kinda guilted him into drinking with me."

"And I told him not to do that. Fuck, I don't care, only reason I didn't like that was because he's all..." Grif made groping motions with his hands. "...when he's drunk. I guess better drinking with him than drinking with drug dealers."

“I guess.” Sister paused, then said, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Because Simmons ran. Aren’t you… you know… I mean, he’s kind of like your husband. I’d be pissed if my husband ran off."

“We’re not married.”

“You’re a little married.”

“Whatever, he can do what he wants. Fucking prick,” Grif muttered.

He didn’t know why he was so surprised. Honestly, Simmons had never been great with intense pressure. ‘Hey, look after my sister,’ was probably too much for him. So big fucking surprise. He ran. Hell, maybe Simmons only stuck around long enough to bone both him and Sister. Fuck if Grif knew.

Whatever. He wasn’t hurt by it.

Okay, maybe he was a little hurt by it. But he didn’t want to show it. He looked away from Sister for a few moments, trying to get his face under control, before looking back and holding out the packet of M&Ms he'd managed to convince the doctor to get him.

"M&M?"

Truth be told, for once in his life he wasn't really that hungry. He just wanted something to do. Hospitals were boring. Maybe prison wouldn't be so bad in comparison.

Sister shrugged and took a couple of M&Ms. "Do you think they'll have M&Ms in prison?"

"Probably not." Okay, prison would be worse. If only for the lack of delicious snacks. “On the plus side, I got told that the kid I hit won’t die and I’m not getting charges from it. So I still got some chance at parole. In, like... twenty years."

"Twenty years..." Sister turned away from him and gazed out the glass screen at the rest of the hospital. "You'll be so old."

"I won't be that old! I'll just be... uh... forty-five. Jesus, that is old. Okay, I take it back." Grif rubbed his forehead. Prison was sounding worse by the minute. "Well, uh... guess I'll... uh... Sister?"

Sister's shoulders were shaking and she wouldn't look at Grif.

"Sis?"

"Just... just gimme a minute, alright?" she sniffed. "This sucks..."

Grif sighed and held out his good arm. "Over here. Come on."

Sister wiped at her eyes before turning around and walking back to him. When she got close enough, Grif pulled her into a hug. Neither said anything. It was just a quiet moment of cuddling, something that the siblings hadn't done enough in their lives.

"I know you think you don't need looking after..." Grif started.

"That's because I don't," Sister mumbled.

"Just... stay away from any clubs that have pills being passed around like candy. And don't embarrass the family. If I find naked pictures of you on the internet again... well, I guess I wouldn't have access to the internet, but..."

"I'll be fine, Dex." Sister said. "And no more clubs. No more druggy ones, anyway. What about the ones with all the neon rings?"

"I dunno. Those neon rings are lame."

"What about those clubs with all the hookers? Brothels?"

"Ugh. No. Never."

"What about lesbian bars?"

"That's fine. They can't get you pregnant."

"What about lesbian bars with neon rings? Or lesbian brothels? Lesbian brothels with neon rings?"

 

* * *

Simmons had few memories of what he did after he ran off. He definitely got into a taxi at one point, told the driver to take him to Las Vegas despite the fact that it was states away, and then after about half an hour declared that he no longer wanted to go, opened the door and jumped out despite the fact that the car had still been moving.

Besides that, he recalled little. He had no idea how he had ended up tangled in someone's hammock. But that's where he woke up. With a headache that felt like tiny little dwarves were mining deep into his head for his vast amount of scientific knowledge.

After borrowing aspirin from whoever's backyard he was in (they were remarkably nonchalant about finding a man hungover and tangled up in their hammock) he started walking around with no real purpose.

He hadn't been thinking that clearly, partly from the hangover and partly because he had no direction to go in. For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to drink the half-bottle of absinthe he still had in his bag.

That obliterated another few hours of memories.

That time, Simmons woke up in a broom closet of a hotel. Apparently he had tried to book a room by paying with a half-eaten cake. Simmons didn’t know where he’d found that cake, although he’d still had a slice of it when he came to. Birthday cake, by the looks of the icing.

The hotel had let him stay in the broom closet out of pity. Rather nice of them really. Why were these people so nonchalant to him stumbling in while wasted?

Well, he was out of alcohol now. Which meant he was forced to think about what he was actually doing.

Simmons settled against the wall of the broom closet and tried to ignore the hangover. He didn't even like alcohol. He really had no idea why he kept drinking it and waking up in weird places. But taking a break from thinking about Grif had been... much better than he liked to admit. Thinking about Grif hurt right now.

But even so… now that he was aware of his surroundings and of his greater situation again, he was thinking about Grif. Stupid, imperfect Grif.

He eventually clambered to his feet, awkwardly thanked the hotel for their hospitality and apologised for the inconvenience (the receptionist hadn’t minded, stating that ‘the cake was surprisingly good’) and he headed for the nearest train station. He’d gotten several cities away during his drunk two-day escapade, and it was going to be a long trip back.

A lot of time for thinking.

He thought about Grif’s last request. Take care of Sister. He could understand why Grif wanted it, but… he wasn’t sure if he was up for it. He'd done a terrible job in the few chances he'd had in the past. What with letting her sneak out repeatedly and once drunkenly getting to third base with her. And thinking about him and Sister alone in that apartment just… didn’t sit right.

It was about halfway back, during some thinking about Grif and Sister, that Simmons realised why his chest stung so much.

It was simple. It was just the realisation that Grif wasn't going to be there anymore. And the stronger realisation that Simmons needed him there.

Sister was great and all... and by this point she was practically a sister to him as well, even if it was a sister that made him have creepy feelings in his pants while drunk. But Grif... Grif was just such a huge essential part of his life that Simmons had no clue what to do without him.

He'd never really reflected on their little routines before. The days that kind of blended together. Waking up, breakfast, arguing about whatever came to mind. Never vicious arguments. Those were few and far in between. The evening was just watching whatever movies were on. Often they were movies that Grif loved, but Simmons complained about due to the gratuitous violence and nudity. They would argue more. Eventually they would fall asleep on the couch. And the next day, the process would repeat.

It was mundane and uninteresting, but Simmons didn’t want to lose it.

Maybe… maybe Simmons would do okay without him. He had… he had his work. And Sister. And…

Simmons strained his brain for a while trying to think of what else he had. He was nearly back to the city by the time he stopped.

...That was it, really. And when he really looked at it, all the work he’d done, all the hacking work… what did it really mean, in the end? He was good at it. But no-one could know he was good at it, because it was illegal. So, really, he just had Grif and Sister.

And looking at it, Sister didn’t need his protection. What had his protection done so far? It had got Grif on murder charges is what it had done. Beyond that, Sister had a life beyond that little apartment. Beyond him and Grif. She didn’t need Simmons, even if they were fond of each other. And Simmons didn’t need her like he needed Grif.

He slumped in his train seat. For the remaining part of the train ride, he thought about his situation. He also did so for the taxi ride back to the apartment. Sister wasn’t there when he got back. The place was empty. Far too empty for his liking. Had been since Grif ran and crashed.

Simmons stared around that empty apartment. And he finally came to a decision.

First thing he did was start up his computer. The only files he bundled and saved were photos, because he was sure that Sister would want any that he didn’t take with him. He put those on a memory stick, and stuck a post-it onto that. Then he started wiping the computer and returning it to a clean state.

While it did that, Simmons cleaned his room. He gathered anything that he didn’t want Sister using, or anything that had illegal data on it, and stuck it in a plastic bag. He dusted. He changed the sheets. He left the room spotless.

When the computer was free of anything incriminating, Simmons stuck another post-it note to it. Then he left the apartment. He dumped the stuff he didn’t need in a dumpster and took off for the police station.

It took him half-an-hour to get there on foot. The station he and Sister had been interrogated at when Grif ran off. He walked in and asked to speak to Max Gain. That it was very important.

After a few minutes of waiting, Max Gain walked out to meet him.

"Dick Simmons, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"You said it was urgent."

"Yes. It is."

There was no way he could talk the police into letting Grif off the hook. There was too much evidence against him.

Simmons took a deep breath.

“I did it. I helped Grif murder that guy.” He held out his wrists, ready to receive the handcuffs if they found it necessary. "Arrest me."

He couldn't let Grif go to prison. Not alone. If he couldn't get Grif out... he'd just have to go in with him.

 

* * *

When Max Gain walked into Grif's hospital room and told both him and Sister that Simmons had confessed to the crime, one could have heard a pin drop. It was just pure silence.

Sister went pale and sat down extremely quickly. Grif just stared at Max Gain. After a full minute of silence, he was the first to break it with four words.

"Son of a bitch!"

He decided then and there that he was going to strangle Simmons when they met again. After all the shit, all the lying, all the promises about Sister... that was it? Simmons just spilled the truth, just like that?

Son of a bitch.

Strangling, or at least shouting a lot, was what Grif planned. But he didn't see Simmons for weeks. Not until he was out of the hospital. Once he was released, Grif was taken to a tiny jail, where he'd be stuck until after the trial and sentencing.

When Grif saw Simmons again, it was in the cafeteria. There were just a couple of scattered people eating in there. One of them was Simmons, sitting there and pushing food around on his plate. When he looked up and saw Grif, he immediately pushed aside his food and got to his feet.

"Grif! How's... how's your arm?"

Grif's plan had been to strangle or shout at Simmons. Instead... he hugged Simmons tightly and started crying like a baby.

"You... fucking... idiot..." Grif forced out between sobs. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Simmons patted him on the back. "Just figured that you'd need the company more than Sister..."

"Idiot. Idiot..." Grif buried his face in Simmons' shoulder. "You're supposed to be out there. I told you to take care of Sister. I thought for sure that you'd, like... marry her or some shit. Since I said it was okay and all."

"But if I did that, then some criminal jerk would claim your mushy brown butt." Simmons grinned at him. "Like I'm gonna let that happen. You're my prison bitch."

Grif heard the unsaid 'I love you' in that sentence.

"Oh, like hell I'm your bitch. If anything, you're my bitch," Grif said, grinning back even though tears streaked his face. And hoped that Simmons understood the 'I love you, too' in that sentence.

Simmons' smile widening after that sentence said that he did. Even if he rolled his eyes and muttered, "As if."

 

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Dick Simmons**

**Date Of Interview: August 21, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 11:20 A.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

  
  


**Extract from the full interrogation.**

  
  


**Gain: The last formal interrogation we had... before you were charged... do you remember what you told me?**

**Simmons: Er. Not really. I think that absinthe blasted away most of my memories of that.**

**Gain: You told me that you had no knowledge of the murder.**

**Simmons: Oh, right. That was a lie.**

**Gain: Obviously. Why didn't you confess then?**

**Simmons: Don't know. Maybe it's because it's easier to plan on fleeing to a country with no extradition policy if you haven't confessed to murder and gotten locked up?**

**Gain: I see. Is that the only reason?**

**Simmons: Well, yeah. Why would I want to go to prison?**

**Gain: I doubt anyone would willingly go to prison. But you confessed after Dexter Grif took the fall for both of you.**

**Simmons: Yeah. I guess that was kind of dumb.**

**Gain: Then why did you do it?**

**Simmons: I don't know. I can't think that well around Grif. His stupidity is catchy.**

 

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Dexter Grif**

**Date Of Interview: August 21, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 12:45 P.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

 

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

 

**Grif: Of course I lied about Simmons. He wasn't even supposed to be helping me. He just did because he thought I'd fuck up if I tried on my own. And I guess he was right... I swear, if I ever get out I am keeping my wallet on one of those chain things so I don't drop it at the scene of any more crimes. Not that I'm gonna go kill more people if I get out.**

**Gain: I should hope not. But everything you say is going down in the transcript.**

**Grif: Aw, fuck. I'm not gonna kill anyone!**

**Gain: Of course not.**

 

* * *

A few weeks later, they were taken to Valhalla Penitentiary.

They got prodded along the corridors by some blonde woman, past the rows upon rows of cells. Grif saw glimpses of other inmates. Many of them tough-looking guys. All wearing orange. Well, Grif was okay with that. Most of his clothes were orange, anyway. Although they probably wouldn't let him wear Hawaiian shirts in here.

He glanced sideways at Simmons. The further they walked, and the more inmates they saw, the paler Simmons got. After a while he decided to just stare at the ground as they were pushed along.

"These are your cells," the woman said bluntly, pointing at two empty cells. "Originally, one of you guys were going to be in this one while the other was stuck somewhere else, but then the guy in the cell next to it got shivved and died because the doctor is incompetent. Lights off in an hour. And if you make any trouble or noise then you will be punished."

She left. Grif stared into his cell. Of course he'd get the one that used to belong to a dead guy.

"Shit," Simmons muttered, looking into his own cell.

"I can't believe you voluntarily went for this," Grif said.

Late that night, Grif couldn't sleep. Instead, he leaned against the bars and stared out into the pitch darkness of the corridor. Occasionally, he saw flashes of light from the torches that the guards held. And sometimes he'd hear noises. Whispers. Little clunks. Other inmates moving around.

It was creepy. And Grif was stuck listening to it. He would be stuck for the next twenty years. If not for his entire life.

He heard movement in the cell next to his. Simmons was awake as well.

"Can't sleep?" Grif whispered.

"No. You?"

"Not at all."

"For you, that's a fucking miracle. Lazy fatass," Simmons murmured.

"Fuck off."

But Simmons didn't. Instead, he stuck his hand out through the bars, reaching for Grif's cell. Grif stretched his own hand out and they grasped hands, twisting their fingers together. They stayed quiet, just listening to the sounds of the prison and staring into the darkness. But just holding hands made it feel less scary.

Prison would suck. It would suck big time.

But it could be worse. At least Simmons was there.

 

* * *

 

 

**Tucker**

 

Crunchbite was furious. Tucker didn’t have to speak Sangheili to understand that. Since Tucker had turned up at his apartment and untied him Crunchbite had been pacing and waving his arms about, yelling at Tucker as he did so.

“Would you stop shouting at me? Either speak English or shut up, Crunchbite, because you’re making it real fucking hard to think!” Tucker yelled back before looking down at his notepad.

He was scribbling down everyone he knew that was associated with C.T. Most of them had been crossed off, because Tucker knew they’d be more loyal to C.T than him. He couldn’t see Joannes or Smith helping him, and anyone else wasn’t likely to know where C.T and Pillman had taken Junior.

Crunchbite was still yelling.

“Seriously, you gonna be helpful or you gonna keep being noisy?” Tucker shouted.

Crunchbite let out an irritated huff before giving a very rude gesture towards Tucker. In his next bit of shouting, Tucker clearly caught the word ‘shisno.’

“Yeah, alright, fine. I deserve that. But seriously, can you calm down and help me?! I know you’re not involved in this con shit like I am, but you gotta know someone who can help, right?”

Crunchbite walked over and looked at Tucker’s list. Yanking the pen out of Tucker’s hand, Crunchbite reached over and circled Smith’s name.

“Smith is in C.T’s pocket, there’s no way he’ll—“

Crunchbite circled Smith’s name again.

“Dude, stop. Smith’s too loyal.”

Crunchbite shook his head. He traced an imaginary line on the ground with his foot, then put his foot over it.

“...He’s stepped over the line?”

Crunchbite nodded.

“You think Smith’s against kidnapping or something?”

Crunchbite wiggled his hand a little before gesturing at a photo of Junior that was sitting on his shelf.

“...Smith’s specifically against kidnapping Junior? Why? Because he’s Sangheili or something? ...Seriously, is that a country or—“

Crunchbite waved his hands dismissively.

“Not the time, got you.” Tucker looked at his list, then sighed and put his face in his hands. “Alright. I’ve got no better idea. You got Smith’s number?”

 

* * *

“What do you mean, he’s out of town?”

Pillman paced outside the gas station, holding Junior in one arm as he did so. The kid was asleep. The car ride had tired him out. He waited outside the men’s bathroom. Terrence had needed to go to the bathroom. Meanwhile, C.T was filling the car up with gas.

“Sorry. But he’s out of town.” It was a young voice on the other end. Maybe twelve, thirteen. “He’s been looking at acquiring this other kid… I don’t really know his name, uh… the last name was something Chinese... not important. So he’s been out of town a lot. And you know you can’t just drop kids on him without asking.”

“What am I supposed to do? It was a sudden acquisition,” Pillman snapped.

“Don’t suddenly acquisize things, then.”

“Not a word.”

“You’re not a word.”

“When will he be back, then?”

“How should I know?”

Pillman ended the conversation much more frustrated than he had been when he started it. He resisted the urge to kick the nearest wall. The last thing he needed was to get pissed off near Terrence. Terrence would insist he wasn’t scared, but the kid had faced some rough shit in the foster system.

He heard footsteps. C.T had approached him while he wasn’t paying attention.

“Car’s fueled up. It’ll get us the rest of the way to Sebiel, no problem.”

“Apparently he’s not there,” Pillman said. He rubbed his face before looking at C.T. “You should probably get back to the bar. Keep business going and all that.”

C.T grimaced. “Maybe. But I don’t like the idea of leaving you and Terrence alone right now.”

"Yeah?”

C.T glanced at the bathroom to make sure Terrence wasn’t leaving yet before lowering her voice. “Do you really think this will go smoothly?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well… I’m not so sure.” C.T crossed her arms, looking away from Pillman. “I’ve known Tucker for longer than you. And… yeah, he’s a lazy, perverted dumbass. But kid’s crafty when he needs to be, or he would’ve been in jail a long time ago. And… I dunno, leaving home at sixteen with nothing but the clothes on his back and making it in this business… he’s driven, if nothing else. And we just took his son.” C.T looked back at Pillman. “I get the feeling that he’s not going to let this go so easy.”

“He knows the deal.”

“Well, he’s also just stupid enough that he might take his chances anyway.” C.T looked down at Junior, who was sleeping soundly. “I can’t say I’m comfortable with the idea of killing Junior.”

“Yeah… I don’t really want to go into child murderer territory either,” Pillman admitted. “But Tucker fucked with us, Connie. We gotta fuck with him back.” After a pause, he added, “I got a place that way. Somewhere we can stay until Sebiel’s back in town. Don’t want to chance just dropping the kid on the doorstep.”

“How long do you think that’ll be? I told Joannes we’d be back by tomorrow, I don’t know how long he can run the bar without my help.”

The bathroom door swung open and Terrence stepped out.

“Are we driving more?” Terrence asked. “The car smells funny.”

“Yeah. A while longer, but we’ll be back home soon. The old home. Look, if you can put up with it a little longer I’ll get you a soda.”

“I don’t want soda. It makes your teeth fall out. I need those,” Terrence said stubbornly. “I want milk. It’ll make me bigger.”

“Then I’m sure I can find that. Come on, gotta pay for the gas anyway.”

 

* * *

“Guys, can you shut up?!”

Whatever Tucker had expected when Crunchbite called Smith to the apartment, it hadn’t been this. Not only had Smith turned up, but he’d brought all his Sangheili buddies. The room was filled with enraged gibberish.

“You’re going to make the neighbours come up here and shout at us. And that’s not going to help things!” Tucker yelled. He looked at Smith and waved his hand frantically. “Jesus, Smith. Put down the dart gun! Why the fuck do you have a dart gun?!”

Smith frowned at Tucker, holding his dart gun tightly like Tucker was going to try and take it off him.

“At least put it down! Jesus!”

Smith ignored him. Tucker rubbed his forehead before shrugging it off and heading to where he could talk to the room at large. Everyone in the room was a lot taller than him—apparently height was part of the Sangheili package—so Tucker had to stand on a chair to get the required presence.

“Alright! Listen up, assholes!”

Tucker waited until they all quieted down, although it took some cajoling from Crunchbite to get them to do so. Once they’d quieted down he continued.

“So, the C.Ts have kidnapped my kid with no intent to return him. And Crunchbite made it sound like you might be able to help me get him back. So. Opening the floor here. How do we get him back?”

Naturally, Tucker did not understand any of the responses. There were many, all equally unintelligible.

“Alright, look. I got a big notepad around here somewhere. I guess we’re gonna have to play Pictionary to get this shit done.”

What followed was half an hour of diagrams, some of them as unintelligible as the language that everyone was speaking. The diagrams involved included explosives, dart guns and a whole lot of dangerous situations that seemed as likely to kill Junior as rescue him.

Tucker was at the end of his rope when Smith drew in a stick figure. He drew a J on it. Then he slapped a fist into his palm.

“...What the fuck, Smith? How is beating up Junior going to help?! He’s a year old, you sicko!”

Smith shook his head before gesturing at the stick figure again. After a moment, he added in three more letters, then forming the word ‘Jons.’

“Jons? The fuck does… Jons? Jones? Do you mean Jones? You know he’s in prison, right?”

Smith paused, squinting slightly.

“Joannes, then?”

Smith snapped his fingers and gestured in a positive way.

“You think we should beat up Joannes? You think that’ll actually help? Joannes might know something, sure, but won’t he just alert C.T?” Tucker looked around at the mass of tall, scary-looking men. “...I guess if you guys hold him until we’ve gotten a hold of Junior, then it should work. Long as we make sure he doesn’t talk to C.T or Pillman. I guess that’s as good a plan as we’re gonna get.”

Without another word, Smith headed for the door. Tucker looked back at Crunchbite, who shrugged, before turning and heading after. Like fuck he was going to rely on Pictionary to see what information Smith got out of Joannes.

 

* * *

“Hey, Smith. Tucker. ...Man, you guys look stormy. What’s up?”

Either Joannes had no idea what had gone down, or he was a better bullshitter than Tucker gave him credit for. Tucker glanced around the bar as he entered. No-one was there. Perhaps, with C.T not present, most of them saw no point in showing up. It worked for Tucker, whatever the reason.

“Hey, Joannes.” Tucker leaned on the counter without sitting down, staring at Joannes. “Where’s C.T?”

“She said she had business for a couple of days. Told me to look after the bar.” As Joannes spoke, his attention was pulled by Smith sitting down. He was still holding the dart gun. “Uh. No weapons inside, Smith, you know the rules.”

“Did she say where her business was taking her?”

“No. Sounded important. You know, like… shit relating to her boss. I didn’t want to know.”

“She trusts you to run the bar but doesn’t trust you enough to tell you where she’s going?” Tucker asked. As he did so, the bar door swung open. The other Sangheilis that Smith had dragged to the apartment were heading inside, mumbling in an ominous way. Joannes’ eyes flickered towards them uneasily, then back at Tucker.

“...I guess it’s got something to do with you, then?”

Tucker said nothing. Just glared at Joannes from across the bar. Joannes looked at Tucker, then groaned and rubbed his face.

“Oh god, what’d you do? Is she on the warpath? Or is the other C.T on the warpath? Please tell me it’s not the other C.T. Connie at least knows what mercy is, but that other guy… jesus.” Joannes covered his face before lowering his hands and gesturing at the door. “Out. I’m not having you here until I know what’s—“

Joannes stopped mid-sentence as Smith pointed the dart gun at him. The others gathered around, not saying a word. Tucker exchanged a glance with Smith before looking at Joannes.

“Look. C.T took my son. I fucked up and… and she said my kid was payment, and Pillman said that they were taking him somewhere where ‘he’d get an education.’ I don’t know what the fuck that means, but I’m not letting them take my kid.” Tucker stared at Joannes a moment longer before saying, “I don’t want to kill you. I doubt Smith does either. But the C.Ts have pissed off a community of weird, tall people with sharp teeth who don’t speak our language, and… well, I can’t be held responsible for what they do.”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t… I don’t know anything. You think killing me will save your kid? You think Connie or Pillman will let you get away with that?”

“Maybe not. But you’ll still be dead, won’t you?”

Joannes shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Jesus. Jesus Christ. Look, I...” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know anything for sure, but… but, well… I hear… rumors.

“I hear… not this city, like… it’s some distance east. It’s where Pillman usually operates when he’s not down here. Anyway, I… I hear things about, like… I guess Pillman goes scoping orphanages and foster group homes. I don’t know exactly why. Just that when he finds a kid, they go… somewhere. I just hear shit through the grapevine, you know? I’d guess that’s where they’re taking Junior.”

“You said east? How far?”

“Like a day’s drive. You might have passed through there when doing that big job with—“

“Shit, right, I think I know where you’re talking about. Yeah, we fleeced a few places that way, and… yeah, yeah, he stopped… somewhere, fuck, I can’t remember. He had to grab something from somewhere. I don’t remember the house, but the neighbourhood—“

Maybe it wasn’t Pillman’s place. But it was worth a shot.

“Alright, anyone who needs to go to the bathroom, you gotta do it now.” Tucker gestured at Smith. “If you’re gonna go, give the gun to someone who doesn’t have to because we ain’t stopping.”

The people around Tucker started shuffling around and chattering among themselves. Some of them headed to the bathroom. Smith passed the gun over to one of the others, who kept it focused on Joannes. Tucker scratched the back of his head and sighed.

“Gimme your phone.”

“Excuse me?” Joannes said warily.

“I’m not having you calling C.T while I’m not paying attention. Give it, or get a dart through the eye.”

Tucker held out his hand. Reluctantly, Joannes removed the phone from his pocket and Tucker snatched it from his hand. After examining it for a moment, he waved it at Joannes.

“If this is, like… not your real phone and you have a secret business phone or something… you go for it, and you are not going to like what happens. ...Shit, that reminds me.”

Tucker climbed over the bar and started checking the shelves underneath it. Nine years of visiting this bar. He knew how C.T worked, and he knew she kept a handgun behind the bar in case of emergencies. He’d only seen her pull it out twice, and never fire it, but he remembered it being within quick reach—aha.

He’d been lucky. C.T hadn’t taken it with her. Tucker grabbed the gun and checked to see if it was loaded. It wasn’t, but bullets were stored nearby. As Tucker grabbed the bullets, he saw Joannes watching with an air of regret that said he’d wished he’d remembered it was there.

“Yep. Sorry, dude.” Tucker stuck the unloaded gun in his waistband. “You need to piss?”

Joannes shifted uneasily before muttering, “Maybe.”

“Well, I’m coming with. No homo, just making sure on the secret phone thing.”

 

* * *

They drove. They drove a long way.

It was nightmarish, being crammed in a car with Crunchbite, Joannes and two other Sangheilis. Tucker was just thankful he wasn’t Joannes, who was wedged between the two Sangheilis in the back. Tucker checked his maps occasionally, and they drove.

By the time they arrived in the city that was apparently home to Pillman, night had fallen. Tucker started to check his maps more frequently.

They hit familiar neighbourhoods. Then unfamiliar ones. Then familiar ones again.

“It’s nearby. It’s right around the corner,” Tucker said.

No-one responded. Joannes shifted uncomfortably and Crunchbite rubbed his forehead, but no-one said anything.

A couple more minutes passed.

“It’s here. Right around the corner,” Tucker repeated.

A few more minutes passed.

“...Alright. Shit. I’m fucking lost.”

Crunchbite muttered something. It had the distinct tone of ‘no shit’ despite the language barrier.

“Fuck off. You find it, then.” Tucker turned around to look at Joannes. “Come on, can you help out? Give me directions or something?”

“I’ve never been here. I don’t know the street number,” Joannes said.

“Fuck!” Tucker smacked the wheel angrily. “What now? What the fuck do I do now? Sit here and hope that dick-munching asshole turns up? Do I—“

An unfamiliar ringtone went off in Tucker’s pocket. He still had Joannes’ phone. Tucker pulled it out and opened it, only to see ‘C.T’ above the phone number on screen. Joannes had gone very pale at the sound. Tucker looked at it, then looked at Joannes.

“Will she think anything’s up if you don’t answer?”

“She’s not dumb, Tucker.”

Tucker grimaced before holding it out. “If you say anything off—“

“I know, I know,” Joannes said wearily. “Dart in the eye. I got you.”

 

* * *

As C.T held her phone to her ear, waiting for Joannes to pick up, she heard Pillman yelp from the other room.

“Ow! Kid bit me!”

“That’s not unusual,” C.T called in Pillman’s direction. “Terrence bites people all the time.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have Sangheili teeth. Jesus.” Pillman walked into the kitchen. A giggling Junior in one arm, while one of the fingers on his other hand trickled blood. “Hold the grub, will you?”

“I’m calling Joannes.”

“I’m literally bleeding.”

“Alright, alright. You never took care of any Sangheili children in the—“

C.T cut off as Joannes finally answered the phone.

“Hey, C.T. What’s going on?” Joannes sounded calm. Cheerful.

“Joannes. Listen, I called the bar. No-one rang, and I tried three times. You run into any issues?”

There was a slight pause. Only a split second hesitation, but even that was enough for C.T to get a slight chill.

“Right, sorry. We were out of vodka and that blue stuff that Smith and his crowd like. I went to get some more, bunch of stores were out. Tracked it down. I’ll head back soon. You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”

C.T did not let her bar get so unstocked as to run out of something as basic as vodka.

“Actually, it looks like I’ll be down here a little while longer. Some complications,” C.T said slowly. “...By the way, you wouldn’t have seen Tucker, by any chance?”

The pause this time around was just a little longer. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Alright. I’ll call when I’m on my way back, okay?”

“Okay. Stay safe, Connie.”

“You, too.”

C.T hung up before looking at Pillman. He was still holding the squirming Junior in his arms.

“Something’s wrong. Slight pauses, saying he was out of liquor when I know I was stocked up… he’s trying to act casual or he’s up to something. Maybe both.” C.T looked down at the phone, then back at Pillman. “I think Tucker’s got him.”

“You think?”

“It’s a seventy to thirty chance, I’d guess.”

Pillman looked down at Junior before grimacing.

“Pity. Kid was growing on me. Sorry, Junior, looks like your dad fucked up.” Pillman propped Junior up a little before glancing around. “Where’d I leave my gun?”

“You don’t want to wait?”

“If he’s on his way, I don’t. You think you could take Terrence somewhere? There’s a seafood restaurant a few blocks away that he loves. It has fish tanks that he likes staring at.” Pillman raised his voice and called out, “Terrence!”

There was no response.

“...Terrence!” When there continued to be no response, Pillman turned to C.T. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Uhh… maybe half an hour ago? Would he wander off?”

“...Fuck, he would. He so would, the fact that I told him not to would make him want to do it more. Fuck. Terrence!”

 

* * *

“There. I spoke to her. She doesn’t know. We good?” Joannes said nervously.

However, Tucker was not paying attention. Movement on the street had caught his eye while Joannes was speaking. As he watched, he saw a small figure in an oversized shark hoodie go around a street corner.

“Shit,” Tucker muttered.

“Uh. Tucker? I said I spoke to her—“

“Shut up for a moment, alright?” Tucker pulled the car over. “Wait here, okay?”

Tucker climbed out of the car, ignoring the inquiring noises the Sangheilis were making. He tried to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible, heading around the corner he’d seen the kid near. Quick enough to see another flash of shark-shaped fabric. He sped up a little and peeked around the next corner.

Terrence had come to a halt in front of a brick wall. It had been freshly painted, and had the air of a wall that had been painted over many times. As Tucker watched, Terrence looked up at the wall and mumbled something under his breath before sliding a bag off his shoulders. He opened it and retrieved a can of red spray paint.

Tucker watched Terrence start to spray the wall, in the most gratuitously typical display of rebellion he’d seen in awhile.

An idea came to mind. It was an idea sickening enough that Tucker almost turned around and went back to the car.

But they stole his son first.

Junior came to mind, the revulsion seething in his stomach at the idea was pushed away. Covered in a layer of ice. Tucker touched the gun still jammed in his waistband, removing it slowly. It was still unloaded, but Terrence wouldn’t know the difference.

Two, three steps. And an ominous click of the safety being turned off that rang out into the night almost as loudly to Tucker as a gunshot would have.

“Better not move, kid,” Tucker said quietly.

Terrence turned. Seeing the shock of his face—though, surprisingly, fairly little fear—made Tucker want to turn and leave again. God, the kid was little. But he was committed now. Tucker pointed the gun barrel at him, moving slowly forward as he did so.

“You’ve got a little friend staying at your place, don’t you?” Tucker asked. “He look like me? But blue-tinted hair and sharp teeth?”

“He doesn’t look like you. You’re old,” Terrence said. The spray paint can was still in his hand, although it was noticeably shaking slightly.

“Am not. Fuck it, not the point. Point is—“ Tucker took another step forward, raising the gun a little to draw attention to it. “You will not get a chance to be old if you don’t come with me. But if you behave—and if your dad behaves—then we’ll give you right back and everyone can move on with their lives. Fair, shrimp?”

“I’m not a shrimp. I’m an apex predator,” Terrence grumbled.

“Just—“

Terrence pressed his finger down on the spray can as Tucker almost came near his reach, spraying him in the face with red paint.

“Jesus Christ!” Tucker screamed, his eyes suddenly burning.

He thought that he might never see again. Jesus, what a nightmare that’d be. All he could see was red. But he could hear fine. He heard the clunk of the spray can being dropped. Footsteps racing by him, and then a scuffle. He heard Terrence yelling, only to be suddenly muffled.

A hand rested on Tucker’s upper arm, gripping him and leading him back in the direction of the car. The gibberish being spoken to Tucker indicated that it was one of the aliens. The tone was familiar. Crunchbite was the one next to him. The one wrestling with Terrence was Smith.

Crunchbite made a noise that might have been laughter.

“Shut up.”

When they got back to the car, the first thing Tucker heard was Joannes.

“Oh god, what did you do?” Joannes groaned. “You kidnapped his kid?! Are you trying to die?!”

“Turnabout’s fair play,” Tucker grumbled. Crunchbite pushed him into a car seat.

Tucker scraped at the paint covering his face. But there were bigger things to worry about.

“Joannes. You can go,” Tucker said.

“...Wait, what?”

“Well, you can probably find Pillman’s house, can’t you? Go and tell him to give me a ring on your phone.”

“...Why? Why not just call him?”

“Honestly, there just isn’t enough room in here for both you and Terrence. Go on, send him a message and shit.”

Tucker heard one of the other aliens yank Joannes out of the car, and soon footsteps hurried away into the night. Tucker waited for the footsteps to fade, then turned to where he estimated Crunchbite was.

“Get us away from here. Joannes might bring them back, and we don’t want to be caught unprepared.”

 

* * *

Tucker would be able to see again in half an hour. Just in time for a phone call.

He was scrubbing at his face, trying to get the remaining paint stains off it. Most of the aliens milled around. Two were in the car with Terrence, much like Joannes had previously been. The others were waiting. Terrence was making a series of muffled but determined noises, often attempting to kick his captors. The kid was stubborn, Tucker had to give him that.

As Tucker scrubbed his face, Joannes’ phone rang in his pocket. Tucker let it ring a few times, just to psyche Pillman out, before finally holding it to his ear.

“I—“

Tucker didn’t get beyond that one syllable before Pillman started yelling at him, in a hysterical, deranged tone that he’d never heard the man use.

“You are a dead man! Do you hear me?! You. Are. A. Dead. Man. I will bury you, your son, whatever remnants of friends and family you have!”

“Is my son alive?”

“Oh, for now. But you are stepping on ice so thin you wouldn’t even be able to fucking see it!” Pillman snarled. “And I promise you, if you so much as leave Terrence with a loose thread on his shark hoodie then Junior will not only die, he will suffer the most slow, painful death I can inflict with an axe.”

Tucker’s hands were shaking and slippery. But what remained of his con artist training let him keep his voice stable.

“It doesn’t have to come to that, Pills. We both want the same thing. Our sons, safe and sound and with us. I told you I can pay you and C.T back on your own time. You’re the one who made this personal. And you know what I want, and what’s at stake if you say no.”

Tucker waited. He could hear Pillman breathing on the other side.

Finally, Pillman spoke again. “If I were to give you back your son… how would we do this?”

“A trade. I give you your kid back and you give me mine. I’ll pay back the money I owe as I can, but we do not bring kids into it ever again. This shit is just… so messy. And I’m not just saying that because Terrence keeps biting people.”

“You want to talk about kids biting? With your freak mutant kid and his freak mutant teeth?”

“Not the time, man, come on! Just give me back my son!”

There was a long pause. It went for a full minute.

“Deal,” Pillman said.

 

* * *

 

A place was set up. Some old warehouse, as if that wasn’t the most ominous location in the world. Tucker could bring Crunchbite and Smith. Anyone else, and Pillman would consider the deal null and void. Tucker didn’t know what that would mean for Junior. He didn’t know what that’d mean for Terrence, either. What he’d do with Terrence if Pillman went back on the deal. But that wasn’t important, nothing would be important if Pillman killed Junior.

Crunchbite drove. Tucker and Smith sat in the backseat with Terrence, just to make sure he didn’t go anywhere. He’d already tried to open the car door while it was moving twice.

“I hate you,” Terrence told Tucker in a matter-of-fact way.

“Yeah?”

“Junior would do better living with me. My fake dad is nicer than his real dad. Which is you. You suck.”

“Well, he wasn’t going to live with you, anyway. Your dad was going to give him to some weird fucked up criminals.”

“That’s your fault,” Terrence said.

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let it happen. And if your dad hadn’t taken Junior, I wouldn’t have to take you.”

“Still your fault,” Terrence said stubbornly.

“It’s not entirely my fault, this shit’s a fucking chain reaction.”

“From your mistake.”

“Ugh, shut up. You’re too talkative for a hostage,” Tucker grumbled.

They reached the warehouse. Tucker opened the door, then grasped Terrence’s arm tightly to bring him along. The gun was in his other hand. It was loaded this time. Tucker could rely on dramatic clicks to scare a ten-year-old, but not to scare Pillman.

Smith got out, carrying the dart gun. Crunchbite was the only one of them unarmed.

Tucker could practically feel the ambush lingering around every corner. He kept a tight grip on Terrence and made sure the gun was always pointed at his head. If Pillman was half the dad he claimed to be—and Tucker was sure that, regardless of his many other faults, Pillman genuinely did care for Terrence—then he wouldn’t risk it as long as Terrence was in Tucker’s grip.

But once Tucker let go of Terrence…

Tucker entered the main part of the warehouse to find Pillman already there. Waiting, seated on a box. Holding Junior in his arms, a gun to Junior’s head just like Tucker had to Terrence. Junior, unlike Terrence, was not distressed. Instead, he was fast asleep.

Joannes was standing next to Pillman, looking uncomfortable. He was the only one. C.T was nowhere to be found.

“Where’s Connie?” Tucker called out. “Wasn’t comfortable with the child murder, or is she just hanging around?”

Pillman didn’t answer. He was focused on Terrence. He was pale in the face.

“Terrence?! Did they hurt you?!” he called out.

“They’re jerks!” Terrence yelled back.

“Hey! Pillman! I’m talking to you!” Tucker shouted. Pillman finally moved his gaze to Tucker. Tucker had never seen such a potent, hateful stare. And it was likely Pillman was thinking the same thing when he looked at Tucker. Though, then again, Pillman was an asshole and had probably upset other assholes.

“Connie’s not here.”

Tucker took that to mean that C.T absolutely was here.

“She’s headed back home, in case something happens.”

Tucker said nothing, though his eyes flickered around briefly to every hidey hole the warehouse had to offer. C.T might be there. She might not be. If not C.T, it was someone else.

And even if this deal went off without a hitch, Pillman could always come back.

Tucker looked at Junior for a long moment, watching him stir sleepily in Pillman’s arms.

“I want Junior back first,” Tucker said.

“No. You give back Terrence. You think I’m letting you hold Terrence one more moment than necessary?” Pillman said coldly.

Tucker sized up Pillman. Thought about what he had. Smith. Armed. Crunchbite. Unarmed. Tucker exchanged glances with Crunchbite. Crunchbite looked back, then nodded imperceptibly. Otherwise, he had not moved his gaze from Junior. Neither had Smith.

“You realise that if you kill Junior, you’ll be upsetting the entire Sangheili community?” Tucker asked. “You really want that many people chasing you?”

“You think I don’t know the Sangheili? Yeah, I know they value their young. I know they value Junior, for whatever reason. But enough old technology and it’ll buy them off. Sorry, buy you off,” Pillman said, addressing Crunchbite and Smith. Both of them looked pretty damn peeved.

“Just asking you to keep it in mind, is all,” Tucker said. “But you kidnapped Junior first. So I should get him back first.”

Pillman took a moment to decide. “Fine.”

...Too easy. Literally too easy. Either Pillman was being reasonable—as if—or it meant that Junior wasn’t important here. Perhaps Pillman had realised the same thing. Thought that Tucker would always be a danger. Think that people knowing Tucker had got one up on him would be a problem for his reputation.

The moment he let go of Terrence, Tucker was sure that a bullet would enter his brain.

“Alright. I’ll send Crunchbite over. Once he’s closer to me than you, I’ll let go of Terrence,” Tucker said.

“Fine,” Pillman said.

Crunchbite slowly crossed the room, looking around like something would lunge out of him. For a guy who wasn’t a criminal—simply someone with criminal relatives—he was holding it together remarkably well. He reached Pillman, then held his hands out for Junior.

“Well, our time together was short, but it was also terrible,” Pillman said flatly to Junior before passing him over.

Crunchbite took Junior, who stirred again and opened his odd, yellowish eyes. He babbled quietly. Tucker resisted the urge to run out there, too.

Instead, he waited.

Crunchbite took several steps away from Pillman. Almost halfway across the room.

Tucker saw the faintest flicker of movement from a deep corner of the warehouse. The slightest glimmer of light reflecting off steel.

But Tucker’s gun was already moving, the moment Crunchbite was almost closer. Tucker let go of Terrence with one hand. And the other hand—the hand with the gun—swung up to point at Pillman.

If Pillman went down, no-one else would bother with Junior. Only with Tucker.

Also, fuck Pillman. Just… fuck that guy.

He aimed.

And just as he squeezed the trigger, Terrence—who had not moved away once Tucker let go of him—instead grabbed his free hand and sunk his teeth as deep as he could into Tucker’s little finger.

The gun jerked.

It went off. So did two other guns. One belonging to Smith, the other belonging to C.T, where she was lingering in the shadows.

Tucker felt like a truck had plowed into him. He toppled to the ground, the initial force transforming into pain that started to spread from his left shoulder outwards. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Pillman stumble back.

Pillman didn’t fall, however. He clutched his throat. There was something long and purple protruding from it. A dart.

Next to him, Joannes did fall. There was red leaking across his shirt, similar to Tucker’s shoulder.

Tucker rolled onto his back to see Crunchbite sprinting away, clutching Junior. Junior now looked wide awake, brought to alert by the noise, and had started to wail. Tucker didn’t see him leave. Instead, he just shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to force the pain in his shoulder to go back so he could… fuck, leave? Escape?

Footsteps. Yells. Pained groans. It was a blur, overwhelmed by the pulsing throb that was occurring in Tucker’s shoulder. There was a lot of blood. More blood than he’d thought he could lose.

Tucker tilted his head to the side, blinking through the dim light. It suddenly seemed too bright and too dim all at once. He saw Terrence standing over Pillman, who had now collapsed proper. Just a shark-patterned hoodie among the carnage. Trying to drag him to his feet, and only getting sleepy mumbles in response.

Feet moved in front of Tucker. C.T’s feet. He heard C.T call out. When calling out failed, he saw C.T pick up Terrence—amid an angry, grief-stricken struggle in which Terrence tried to wiggle from her grip—before she fled. She gave Tucker only a fleeting glance.

That was the last thing Tucker saw before it all went dark.

 

* * *

Tucker, to his great surprise, didn’t die in his sleep.

He woke up in a bright room. His shoulder ached, but not as much as it had before. He blinked at the ceiling for a while. The hospital room around him slowly came into focus. No-one present except a nurse who was as plain as the room was. She was fiddling with a blood pack attached to his arm.

Once she realised Tucker was awake (Tucker had taken the brief chance to admire her boobs in silence, instinct taking over since he couldn’t remember why he was there) she left. A doctor returned, followed by a policeman.

“Ah, shit,” Tucker muttered.

“Shit is right, Mr. Tucker,” the policeman said.

“I did something fucked up then, right? I, uh… my brain’s a little fuzzy, I—Junior! Shit, Junior, is… where’s my son?”

The policeman gazed at him for a moment. “...Your son? I assume he’s with the father. The other father, or… I didn’t quite understand the family situation, you’re both biologically—“

“Nevermind, I was having a dream,” Tucker said quickly. If they didn’t know Crunchbite or Junior had been there, there was no reason to tell them. “Uh… what happened?”

“I was hoping you could enlighten us, Mr. Tucker. The other survivor has been tight-lipped.”

“Survivor?”

“Mr. Tucker, a gun was found next to your unconscious body, which matches that of the bullet found in Joannes. He died from his injuries. As such, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of either manslaughter or second-degree murder, depending on what we find out about the situation. You clearly weren’t alone, so—”

“Joannes is dead?” Tucker croaked.

He’d feel fine if it had been Pillman. Fuck, that had been the aim. But Joannes… he was friendly with Joannes, despite the hostage situation. The two had often worked as each other’s wingmen.

“...I assume you didn’t know, judging by the surprise.”

“It… it was an accident, I wasn’t aiming for him,” Tucker said.

“I see. I have a lot of questions to ask you, Mr. Tucker. But you should know that unless astounding evidence that you were an innocent victim in all of this appears, you’re looking at a life sentence. Even for manslaughter, the circumstances are… grave.”

Shit.

“When’s the trial?”

“A date has not been fixed. We need to question you further.”

“Alright. ...Can I ask for one thing?”

“If it’s reasonable.”

“Can you call Crunchbite? Get him to bring Junior here? I… I just want to hug my kid.”

 

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Lavernius Tucker**

**Date Of Interview: November 5th, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 3:30 A.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

 

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

 

**Gain: Do you know who shot you?**

**Tucker: Nope.**

**Gain: Do you know who shot Hawke?**

**Tucker: Wait. His name is actually Hawke? Seriously? That’s hilarious. And no, I have no idea. Shit got really crazy.**

**Gain: Would you have any idea who called 911?**

**Tucker: Huh. ...Male or female?**

**Gain: The voice sounded feminine, though I can’t be sure.**

**Tucker: Nope. No idea.**

**Gain: You’re not being very helpful, Mr. Tucker.**

**Tucker: I admitted my part in it, what more do you want?**

 

* * *

Tucker got a phone call the day after he was placed in Valhalla Penitentiary. He was not surprised to hear C.T’s voice on the other end.

“So, you got off free, huh?” Tucker asked.

“What are you talking about? I was never there,” C.T said. “I’m sure someone would have said something, were I there. And I’m sure I would have had better aim.”

Tucker leaned on the phone box, rubbing his shoulder. It had been some months since the bullet went through it, but it still hurt. “Yeah. Unless you weren’t trying. I didn’t really move. How’s Terrence?”

“Unhappy but keeping busy. He’s made about ten elaborate revenge schemes centred on you. He’s not happy you sent his dad to prison—“

“Not my fault,” Tucker interrupted.

“Kind of your fault. I’m not happy about it, either.” C.T paused, then sighed. “However. I’m willing to admit that… perhaps some of it was blown out of proportion when we could have taken other measures.”

“You think?” Tucker asked, voice strained.

“So, my offer. One that will not be re-negotiated. I leave your family alone. And if you ever get out, you leave mine alone.”

“Deal. Easy. Fuck, if Junior’s safe we’re all good.”

“Good. Well… it’s been terrible,” C.T said dryly. There was a clunking sound somewhere on the other end of the phone, and C.T sighed. “Better check what Terrence is doing now. Good luck. I hear that prison is terrible.”

“Yeah, don’t have to tell me.”

Tucker hung up, sighed and trudged back to the cells. Well, he wasn’t getting out of this. But hey, it wasn’t so bad. He was told he had a chance at parole in twenty years. In the meantime, he might as well get back to conning. Or finding someone to irritate. Either way.

He quickly found a grumpy, pale guy in a cell near his.

“Hey, uh… you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Wow, douche. Just want to talk. I’m bored.”

“Get lost. No-one wants to talk to me. You’re playing tricks.”

“Oh, come onnnnn,” Tucker whined. “At least tell me your name.”

“It’s Church. Now fuck off.”

“Heh. That’s a stupid name.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Caboose**

 

Caboose didn't do anything about the corpse that was sitting inside his closet. He barely even consciously thought about it. His mind had gone into some strange, hypnotic state where the murder barely even registered.

The morning after the murder, when Caboose woke up he noticed that the room smelt funny. It made his nose itch. He looked at the closet. Bloodstains had seeped from underneath the door.

He got to his feet and opened it up. Immediately, his eyes landed on the body of the stripper. It was easier to see her now that it was morning. Blood had dribbled all over the floor of the closet, and the twisted hole in her stomach was jagged and smelt like bathrooms. Then there was the face. It was blue and swollen from when Caboose had strangled her. It did not look nice at all, even though she had been pretty before... before it happened.

Caboose stood there for about ten minutes, staring down at the body. His mind completely blank. Then he grabbed some of the clothes from inside the closet, clothes that had no blood on them, and closed the closet door.

He got dressed and continued with his daily routine, as if there was nothing different about the day. Ate breakfast and then spent the next couple of hours once again trying to figure out how to use the iron without burning himself. After burning his hands a few times he gave up.

Then he returned to the closet, opened it again and spent more time staring at the corpse. He had no idea why. He just gazed at the swollen face and leaking stomach. He didn't freak out. He didn't do anything. He just stared.

After half an hour of gazing, he shut the closet door again and left to go to work.

When he got to work and resumed his job of standing next to the door and occasionally throwing out people who started groping the strippers, he saw the bartender watching him. The bartender raised an eyebrow and waved for him to come over.

"Hey, Caboose. Have you seen Sparkles?"

"...Uh. Who?"

"Oh god, right, you can never remember anyone's names..." The bartender rubbed his forehead before adding, "You know, the blonde chick who wears loads of body glitter."

"Nice Blonde Lady?"

"Yeah. You seen her? She should have been in by now and she said she was stopping at your place for... you know... a birthday surprise."

Caboose felt a tiny flare of panic in the bottom of his stomach, but it quickly went out to be replaced by the numb blankness he'd been feeling all day.

"I have not seen her."

"Did she show up at your place? She didn't freak you out, did she? I know you're uncomfortable around people who got it all hanging out."

"I have not seen her," Caboose repeated. "I am going to go back to work now."

He backed away from the bartender, who was frowning slightly. Caboose quickly distracted himself with a customer who was too drunk and rowdy. The hypnotic state returned.

If he ignored it then it would go away. That was what Mama had always taught him as a kid.

 

* * *

" _ Sheila? Are you coming to bed? _ "

" _ Soon. Maybe _ ," Sheila said distractedly. She was sitting at her desk, rifling through a bunch of files and pamphlets and such. One of them was Caboose's patient file from his accident two years ago. The other files detailed the rest of his family, as well as several mental hospitals and other institutions.

She had intended to call Caboose's mother if Caboose didn't return home by himself by his birthday. But she hadn't yet. She was still organizing what she wanted to tell her.

Lopez frowned before wrapping an arm around her from behind, peering over her shoulder. " _ Can't you work later? _ "

" _ I'm almost done. I'm just going over some things. _ "

" _ Is this about that dopey guy from the strip club again? _ "

" _ Yes. I'm just... deciding on which place would be good for further treatment. Some therapy together with his family would probably be helpful. Maybe it would stop him from wanting to stay away from them. _ "

" _ I don't suppose you can just close your eyes and point randomly at a pamphlet to figure out what place you're going to recommend, can you? _ "

" _ That's not exactly professional, dear. _ "

" _ I didn't say it was. But all these cuckoo houses look similar. _ "

" _ Please don't call them cuckoo houses... _ "

" _ Sorry. _ " Lopez picked up one of the pamphlets, glanced at it and quickly dropped it again. " _ And there's no way I can help you get it done faster? _ "

" _ Probably not. _ "

" _ Then I'll leave you alone. _ " Lopez squeezed Sheila tightly for a moment. " _ Don't worry about it too much. You'll make the right choice. You always do. _ "

" _ That's an over-flattering percentage. But I appreciate it, anyway, _ " Sheila said, smiling slightly.

 

* * *

Caboose ignored the situation for two more days.

He continued with his usual routine. Breakfast, fiddling with the iron, lunch, work, going back home, sleeping. And then repeating it the next day.

The only breaks he took were the times when he would go back to the closet, open the door and start staring at the body again. Which was starting to smell.

He couldn't explain why he kept doing this. It was possible that his mind was just trying to break through the blank, hypnotic state that it was in by forcing himself to look at what he'd done. But inevitable, it always ended the same. With Caboose closing the door again and shutting the entire thing out.

Finally, on the fourth morning after the murder, something snapped Caboose out of it.

He had been mucking around with the iron again, trying not to burn himself on it this time, when someone knocked at his door.

Caboose blinked a few times and looked up at the door with confusion. The only people who ever came to visit him were the old lady whose basement he lived in and Blonde Stripper Lady. The old lady never came by more than once a month.

As for the stripper lady... it couldn't be her because... because...

Caboose's mind briefly shut down, but he was snapped out of it by another knock at the door. He put the iron down and approached the door. After a few moments of hesitation, he opened it a couple of inches, staring through the gap. He had to squint a little, because it was raining again and water drops were flying everywhere.

"Michael J. Caboose?"

There were two men standing out there in the rain. Caboose didn't recognise them. But they were wearing police uniforms. The main who had just spoken quickly flashed an ID, although it was impossible to read because it was splattered with raindrops. Also, Caboose hadn't been able to read since the car accident.

"My name is Detective Max Gain. I would like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?"

Cracks started to appear in Caboose's state of blank denial.

"There is nowhere to sit," Caboose muttered. "No good place for guests."

"We can stand."

"No, you cannot. That would be uncomfortable."

"It won't be as uncomfortable as standing out here. The steps are very slippery." Max Gain gestured at the rain before narrowing his eyes. "Is there a particular reason you don't want us in there, Mr. Caboose?"

"There is nowhere to sit. There are no chairs."

"And I've told you that's not a problem."

They weren't leaving. More cracks appeared. Caboose's pulse sped up and panic started to crawl into his stomach.

"Okay. You can come in," Caboose said reluctantly. "But you do not have to. We can go somewhere else. We could... go and buy cheeseburgers. That would be a much happier talk."

"This is fine. I just want to ask you a few questions."

As Caboose opened the door more and let the two policemen in, his eyes flickered to the closet. He saw that blood had dripped onto the floor in front of it. He tried to draw attention away from it.

"I will make sandwiches!" he yelled. "You can watch, if you want!"

"Sandwiches won't be necessary, this questioning should only go for a few minutes unless something comes up." Max Gain pulled out a notebook. "Just a background check, first off... how long have you worked at—"

"I did not see her," Caboose said quickly.

"Excuse me?"

"Um. The bartender man already asked me if I had seen Nice Blonde Lady. I have not." Caboose stepped backwards. His back bumped into the ironing board. "I do not know where she is."

Max Gain looked very suspicious all of a sudden. "How did you know this was about her, Mr. Caboose?"

The panic was rising. Caboose was starting to shake. His eyes automatically flickered to the closet.

"No reason. No reason. I was thinking about it because the bartender man already asked me and..." Caboose wanted to move backwards again, but he couldn't. His hand nudged the iron and he quickly yanked his hand back, rubbing the burns that were covering the skin. "I was just thinking about it, I do not have... I did not do anything. She was never here."

Caboose's eyes flickered towards the closet again. He couldn't stop them from doing so. And this time, Max Gain noticed. He looked at the closet. And his eyes traveled down towards the bloodstains on the floor.

The state of denial shattered into a million pieces.

The detective knew. He'd seen the bloodstains and he knew. He was going to yell and get angry and hurt him even though he didn't mean to do anything bad. Caboose couldn't let him. If he got mad, then he might tell Mama and Sheila about the bad thing he'd done and then he would be taken away to one of those places where bad people go.

He had to stop them. He had to make them go away.

Max Gain had taken a couple of steps towards the cupboard. Close enough to smell the coppery scent and the icky smell that was like when you left meat out of the freezer.

"Mr. Caboose, you're—"

Before he could get further than three words, Caboose had done the first thing that came into his head. He'd grabbed the iron and swung it, smashing it into the side of Max's face. Max Gain was knocked to the ground.

"Holy shit!" The other policeman went for his gun. He had it halfway out of his holster when Caboose attacked him as well. This time, he got the man's face with the hot plate, burning his face severely. The gun went off, but the man was so distracted by the pain that despite the close range he completely missed. And he didn't have a chance to try again before Caboose bludgeoned his head in. He was unconscious after the first time Caboose smashed the iron into his skull. But Caboose kept going. The panic that had been suppressed for the last few days was spilling out all at once. Smash. Smash. Smash. The man's head was becoming a bloody pulp.

Caboose might have kept going, but he was interrupted by a bang.

The most blinding, white hot pain he'd ever experienced shot though his leg. Caboose dropped the iron and rolled onto his back, grabbing at where the pain was coming from. He felt blood. And he saw a gun barrel pointed at him. Max pointed it at him while trying to struggle to a sitting position. However, he was too dizzy to manage it. It was a miracle the bullet had hit Caboose at all.

Make him stop. Hurt him. Hurt him back.

Caboose grabbed Max's arm and yanked it towards him, forcing the gun barrel to point elsewhere. When Max attempted to pull his arm free, lashing out with his free arm and his legs, Caboose twisted the arm as far in the wrong direction as possible. He heard a faint pop and a short scream, and the gun dropped from Max's fingers.

Caboose picked it up. His hands were shaking. Pain was still coursing through his leg. But after the initial shock, it felt muted underneath the rush of energy that was going through Caboose at the moment.

It is hard to think if people get hurt in the head. If he cannot think, he cannot yell and then he cannot send me to the place for bad people.

Caboose shoved Max flat on the floor and pressed the barrel against the back of his head. Though... he wasn't really sure how to use a gun. Was it as easy as it looked in the cartoons?

Max had frozen, feeling the metal resting against the back of his skull.

"Don't do it," he warned. "You'll end up in a river of shit if you do."

The hesitation over how to use the gun had forced Caboose to stop and think properly. He finally realised what he was doing. He'd just clubbed a man to death with an iron. And he was about to shoot a second one. And there was a dead lady in his closet. And he'd killed his pet cat.

He had done bad things. He was a bad person now. Even if they'd made him do it. It wasn't his fault. They would have yelled at him and sent him to prison. Prison was for bad people. And he was a bad person, so maybe he should stop and let them take him there.

But he didn't want to go. And stopping now wouldn't help. He had to run. And he didn't want people following him.

Bang.

Now Max Gain wouldn't follow him. And now Caboose had done another bad thing.

Caboose gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain in his leg, and started dragging himself to the wall so he could pull himself into a standing position. He had to leave. He had to get out before more policemen showed up. They always did in the movies.

It was hard to climb to his feet. Caboose fell twice. Once from simply overbalancing. And the second time, he put weight on his injured leg and the pain caused him to collapse again. He was attempting to claw his way back up again when someone knocked on the door.

Oh no.

Caboose still held Max's gun. He pointed it at the door warily.

"No-one is home! Go away!" he yelled, his voice cracking as he did so.

The reply was the worst thing he could have heard at that moment.

"Mikey? Oh my god, it's really you!"

Mama?

"Please open the door! I'm not mad at you, I just want to talk to you! Please, Mikey!"

Caboose lowered the gun immediately. How did she find him? Did Sheila tell her where he was? Caboose had told her not to! No, no, no... why now?! Of all the times Mama could have appeared, why now?! She was going to see all the bad things and then she would hate him forever and ever even if she wasn't mad about the Apples thing.

"Go away!"

"But... But I miss you! So does your papa! And your sisters and nephews and nieces... even your father, lazy bum that he is, has been concerned! We just want you to come home."

"I said go away!"

Mama kept talking. "I didn't mean to yell at you, I was just stressed! Dr. Filss called me and recommend we take some therapy sessions as a family to help make all these problems go away! We can be a happy family again, Mikey, you just have to come home!"

"No. No, we cannot," Caboose whispered. "Cannot be happy again. Too many bad things. I would be in the way."

"Mikey—"

"I said get lost!" At the same time, Caboose raised the gun. He made sure to point it far away from the door before he fired it three times, shooting the wall. He would have shot more, but the gun was out of bullets. He heard a short scream from the other side of the door.

"Was that a gun?! I told you after you found Papa's shotgun in the shed! No using guns!"

"Go away. Or I will shoot you," Caboose lied.

There was a long pause.

"Michael? You've... you've done something really bad, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I knew this would happen if you ran off... Mikey, please just come home. Or at least open the door. If you’ve got another dead cat in there, we can… we can work past that."

She wasn't leaving. It was like the policemen all over again. Except that Caboose couldn't hurt her to make her go away.

But he could pretend.

He edged his way towards the door, using the wall for support.

"Stay away from the door, Mama. Or I will shoot you. And... and do not look inside the room. It is... icky." He reached out and opened the door, nudging it open before making his way through it.

There was Mama. She had not removed her slippers or hair rollers. The rain was probably ruining the fluff in the slippers. Caboose pointed the empty gun at her.

"Please go away," he said. His voice shook badly that time. It was much harder to say it when he was actually looking at her. A huge part of him wanted to give up then and there. To drop the gun, hug Mama and just do what the mean policemen told him to.

Mama raised her hands, but she didn't back away. "You... you won't shoot me."

"I will. I am a bad person now. And that is what bad people do. They shoot mothers and... and other nice people that wear hair rollers."

"It's not in you. Not even with the... the head problems." Caboose heard the unsure tone in Mama's voice. She was probably thinking about Apples. Or about that time Caboose had gotten really mad at Dad. Or the other times Caboose had got suddenly mad, which had only started after the car accident.

"The detective man would not agree with you." Caboose lowered the gun anyway, but only so he could start pulling himself up the stairs that led up to the street. They were very slippery because of the rain.

Mama looked down at his leg and noticed the gunshot wound. "Oh my god! You shouldn't be walking on that, you—how did that even happen?! Did you shoot yourself in the leg or... no, wait... was someone shooting at you? I knew this looked like a bad neighbourhood and—STOP WALKING AWAY FROM ME, YOUNG MAN!"

Caboose did stop out of force of habit. When Mama started yelling like that it was best to listen. But then he remembered what he was doing and continued pulling himself up the stairs.

"Hang on, do you have a phone? I'll call 911, just stay still—"

She went dead silent after she pushed open the door. She'd seen the bodies. Now she knew for sure. Caboose didn't look back, he just kept going up the stairs. Everything was kind of blurry. Was it the rain? Or was he just losing too much blood?

"I said not to look," he murmured.

Mama didn't say anything. All Caboose heard was a bunch of choked sounds, like she was trying to talk but just had no words.

He was almost to the top of the stairs now. So close to being able to run. Or hobble, at least. He would be able to get away from the bodies and the police and Mama...

And then he felt hands grab his arm.

"Mikey, you... you need help. You need to turn yourself in." Mama's voice shook horribly and she was clearly having trouble getting out the words. She was having more trouble saying that then Caboose had when he threatened her. "I can't let you leave."

"Let go."

"I said turn yourself in, so listen to your mother!"

"And I said let go!"

Caboose yanked his arm free roughly. He wasn't quite sure what happened after that.

Had he shoved her when he pulled free? Or had her cheap slippers simply slid on the rain-covered stairs? Later on, Caboose would remember it one way on some days, and remember it the other way the rest of the time.

The end result was the same. Caboose turned to see Mama falling down the stairs. She tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. Her head hit the bottom stair and Caboose heard it crack on the concrete.

It was completely silent after that. Except for the pattering of raindrops falling.

"Mama?"

The puddles around the stairs were red, because Caboose had bled all over them. The puddle under Mama's head was starting to get redder.

"Mama?"

Caboose dropped the gun, sat down and shuffled back down the stairs again, sliding through the puddles until he arrived next to Mama. He reached out and poked her carefully. There was no response.

"Mama? Mama?!"

She wasn't moving. Just like the policemen. Just like the nice stripper. Just like Apples.

"No. No. No, no, no. I... I did not... the gun was empty, I was not going to hurt you... it was a trick! I am sorry! Please... please do not play tricks on me! Get up and yell at me! I am sorry! I did some bad things, please stop playing tricks! Please get up! Mama, get up! Now! I... I did not mean for this to happen... I..."

Caboose started shaking her roughly. Her eyes were open. That meant she was okay, right? She was fine! Just tired! She couldn't be dead, because Caboose wouldn't kill Mama. He was not that bad.

"I will... I will let you stay in my bed! You can have a nice nap! And then you will wake up and be fine and you can be angry at me if you want, but you will be fine!" He tried to pick her up, but with his bad leg he couldn't carry her. So he started to drag her back inside, pulling her by her arms along the ground.

Caboose dragged her all the way to his bed and, with some effort, managed to move Mama into the bed. He carefully tucked her in, making sure the blankets were all nice and non-wrinkly, and making sure the pillow was as fluffy as he could manage. Just like she had done for him when he was a little kid.

"I am sorry for the smell," Caboose said to her. He reached out and grabbed her hand, clinging to it tightly. "It is not as nice as back home. I miss home. But... but you were probably happier. Right? And you will be happy when you wake up and go back. You will be fine, you just need to feel warm and happy. I would make you chicken soup, but I do not know how..."

Things were still blurry. Caboose rested his head on the blankets.

"When you wake up, please make sure I am not asleep. The policemen are still mad at me... but I am tired. A little nap will be good."

Caboose passed out a few moments later. He wasn't awake when the policemen kicked down his door, looking for Max Gain and his partner.

 

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Michael J. Caboose**

**Date Of Interview: March 5th, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 11:20 A.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Utah**

 

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

 

**Utah: Okay, so after you killed Max... what did you do, then?**

**Caboose: ...I do not want to talk about this.**

**Utah: Not talking isn't going to do you any favours.**

**Caboose: I know.**

**Utah: And we might have to try again if we don't get it all over with now. I'm sure you don't want to spend too much time in this place. Max was friends with a lot of the staff here.**

**Caboose: Yes. They told me. ...They were really mean. I am not allowed to talk about it.**

**Utah: Were they hitting you? They're not allowed to do that. ...Nodding or shaking your head doesn't get caught on the audio tape. ...Same goes for hand signals.**

**Caboose: But they said I was not allowed to say anything.**

**Utah: Okay, then. Well, back to the interview... concerning your mother...**

**Caboose: I do not want to talk about it!**

**Utah: Are you sure?**

**Caboose: I did not kill her. I would not do that. I... I do not think I did. I did not mean to, if I did... But Papa was glaring at me. He says that I did. And then he said I died in a car accident. Which is not right, either! I am still alive.**

**Utah: I think it's a turn of phrase.**

**Caboose: He would not believe me. I did not mean to hurt Mama. Why does everyone keep acting like I... I... Why are you yelling at me about it?**

**Utah: ...I haven't raised my voice.**

**Caboose: I don't want to answer any more questions! Leave me alone!**

 

**The transcript ended here. Attempts to finish the interrogation were made, but the suspect refused to speak another word to any of the staff after this interview.**

 

* * *

A few days after being moved to Valhalla Penitentiary, Caboose sat at one of the cafeteria tables, poking at the macaroni. It looked very orange. Maybe it was supposed to match the jumpsuits. Caboose didn't know if it tasted orange. He had never tried it. He hadn't eaten a thing since he got locked in the prison. He was not hungry. Even when he felt hungry, he did not want to eat.

He did not deserve food. He was a bad person. And he didn't think he'd killed Mama... but Papa said that he had. And Papa was always right about everything else. Maybe he did do it, and he was just so stupid that he hadn't realised it.

It was confusing. He didn't like to think about it. But there was too much time for thinking in here, even though Caboose was really bad at it.

As he moodily pushed the food around on his plate, someone grasped his shoulder from behind. Caboose moved to turn around, but whoever was standing around snapped at him.

"Don't turn around. People looking at me makes me... erm. Uncomfortable. It's much safer not to be seen." Caboose stopped trying to turn around. "I see you're not eating your food. You wouldn't be suffering any feelings that are making it hard for you to eat, would you? Guilt, perhaps? It's a very common thing in a cesspool like this. So? Feeling guilty? I could help you with that."

"...Are you my conscience?"

Whoever was standing behind him laughed. The laugh was kind of scary. "Sure. Why not. But I think for simplicity's sake, you can just call me O'Malley. Now, if you want to relieve some guilt... perhaps you could help me with some things?"

"Will I be hurting people?"

"Only bad people. Which is a good thing for everyone else."

It sounded reasonable.

 

* * *

 

 

**Donut**

 

“What do you mean? You said your friend would let me in. ...Changed shifts? What the hell, then why can’t you hang out somewhere else? You know, somewhere I can actually come along? ...Oh my god, you guys are the worst.”

Donut paced outside the club irritably while the bouncer, who had not taken kindly to something Donut said—a guy couldn’t accept advice about how his suit clashed with everything else?—glared at him.

“I don’t care that it’s happy hour inside, can’t we do happy hour somewhere else? Can’t you at least bring your drinks out here? ...So I’m just supposed to languish? You know what, fuck that. I’m going to go home and start my own party.”

Donut ended the call and stuck his phone back in his pocket, before sighing and looking up at the sky. Getting darker. He sure didn’t want to be waiting out here when night hit. Mama Liz did have a point about this city being dangerous, and Donut didn’t want to go getting mugged in an alleyway or something.

With a huff, Donut headed off down the street. There were always taxis a couple of streets over. Beat waiting out here.

At least he could be sure that Maine wouldn’t be sitting at home moping by himself. They could mope in a pair now. Misery loves company. Well, not misery in Donut’s case. Annoyance and mild betrayal, perhaps.

Donut rounded the corner and stopped briefly. There was a bulldozer parked nearby. Weird, as there was a total lack of any signs of building or building destruction going on. A guy was sitting inside it, looking down at a street directory and clearly muttering to himself. As Donut passed by, the guy looked up and called out to him.

“Hey! Hey, you!” The guy slid out of the bulldozer, stumbling a little as he landed. “Hey, um… can I borrow your phone?”

“Borrow my—who doesn’t have a phone on them nowadays?” Donut asked.

“Look, I left it at home, alright? Get off my grill, I really need to call someone.” The guy was shifting on his feet nervously.

Donut glanced down at his clothes. He was wearing the safety vest thing that guys in bulldozers always had, but… Donut had an eye for clothes, and those jeans and that shirt would not hold up under heavy work. Not bulldozer-level work.

“Um. I’m not comfortable with lending you my phone. I mean, you know… just. Phones. So much of my life is on my phone, you know? Phone numbers, messages, selfies...” As Donut babbled, he searched his pockets and withdrew a few coins. “There’s a public phone outside the club in the street I came from. Use that.”

The guy shifted on his feet, scowling for a moment, before nodding. “Guess it’s something. Thanks.” He took the coins from Donut.

“Yeah, no problem, just, um… get better jeans, those aren’t good for builder work.”

“What? Oh, yeah, right. Okay.”

Donut watch the guy jog off before heading for where the taxis gathered. There was a niggling feeling in his mind, but he shook it off. It was probably just some new builder guy who’d forgotten where he was supposed to take the bulldozer.

 

* * *

Maine hadn’t moved since Donut left. He was still lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. A spider was skittering across it. It was a welcome distraction. His mind was filled with the bright lights of Errera. It led to other memories of Carolina, which in turn led to memories of Sigma, which led to memories of that day, those months, the last ten years.

Sometimes Maine didn’t like being in his own head. Sometimes he would like to forget a lot of things. A lot of failures. Carolina filled with bullet holes and Sigma’s decomposing body. It’d been so long. It felt like yesterday and at the same time felt like a hundred years ago.

Maine still worked. Did odd jobs here and there. But never like back then. Never stayed with a partner. And maybe that was for the best.

As that thought ran through his head, the phone rang. Maine didn’t get up to answer it. He assumed it was one of Donut’s many friends. Friends who talked too much and had the attention spans of goldfish. All of Donut’s annoying qualities with none of the charm that accompanied it.

The phone rang itself out. Then it started up again.

If he didn’t answer it, it could go all night. Maine reluctantly got to his feet and stomped into the kitchen before picking up the phone.

“Mrr?”

The voice on the end was one he hadn’t heard in a decade.

“Meta? Is that you?”

Epsilon.

It was like a switch had been flicked. All the lethargy and depression was swept away in a moment.

“Mrrhh!”

“Oh, it is you. Man, you would not believe the amount of Maine names there are in the phone book. Or state names in general, really. How much Dakota does a phone book need? Fuck, that’s not the point here. Listen, I need you to help me.”

Help? Help. Maine could do that. It was all he used to do. Dedicating himself to protecting the people who mattered, people who slowly dwindled down to zero. Carolina (no, he left Carolina, he hadn’t been protecting her when—), Sigma, and then Theta—traitorous Theta—taking the few of them that remained and leaving.

Maine growled a question. Epsilon paused slightly before answering it.

“They’re… they’re fine, I guess,” Epsilon said slowly. “We’re not on speaking terms right now.” He paused for a moment. “...Did you know? About Theta? About Leo?”

Maine said yes.

“That’s why Theta left you behind, huh? Look… I didn’t know. I thought Leo was dead, I thought you both were. If I hadn’t decided to google the name on a whim... Look, fuck, I don’t have much time. I… I kind of stole a bulldozer.”

Maine had to stare at the phone in disbelief for a moment.

“I know, it wasn’t all that smart! I… I just didn’t know what to do. I…” Epsilon took a deep death. “Look, I found out what prison Leo’s in. And I want to get him out. He doesn’t deserve to be in there. ...Okay, maybe he does. Maybe we all do. But I don’t want him to be in there. And… look. I don’t know who else to ask.”

A break-in. A stupid, poorly considered break-in. But it was another chance. Another chance to fix what had gone wrong. Quite frankly, Maine would have eaten glass if Epsilon had told him to.

“Oh god, you’re awesome. Did I ever tell you that? But listen, I gotta bring this over and we gotta do this right now. Because I think they’re going to notice the bulldozer if I keep hanging around it. Can I bring it over? Are you alone?”

Maine explained that his roommate would be occupied hanging out with friends until the next morning.

“Alright. Alright, I’ll be over in… five. Ten? Something like that. See you in a bit.”

Epsilon hung up. Maine dropped the phone on the receiver. Then he headed for his room to go and put his boots on. He’d need weaponry if he and Epsilon were going to break the Alpha out. But he didn’t dare keep any guns in the apartment. Not with Donut’s tendency to poke his nose into everything.

Once he’d finished lacing his boots up, Maine sat still on the bed for a moment before he started to pace around the house. Straining his ears for the telltale noise of a bulldozer’s engine.

Soon enough, he did hear an engine. But it didn’t seem loud enough. Nothing beyond a normal car. Maine was proven right when the door swung open and Donut’s voice rang out throughout the house.

“Maine, I’m back!”

...Shit.

Maine left his room to find Donut heading for the kitchen. He was already babbling at full speed.

“Hey! Turns out my friends are jerks,” Donut said. “But not to worry! I can run a better party! I don’t need them and their ‘ohh, we don’t want to leave happy hour here, wait outside’ rudeness.”

Oh no.

“Hey, did you invite any friends over? It’s cool if you did, you know, they can… I don’t know, I’m sure they’re fun. I mean, you’re fun. Sometimes. When you’re not brooding.”

Maine made an anguished strangled noise and brandished his hands at Donut.

“I’m not taking it back, you’re totally broody.”

Maine made another irritated noise and flailed his hands dismissively. Donut tilted his head and squinted up at him. The sort of expression that meant Donut was either on the edge of understanding him or on the edge of drawing a completely wrong conclusion.

“You’re… having someone over?”

Maine nodded frantically.

Donut stared at him for a moment, then gasped. “...A date? You’re having a date over?”

Maine turned and butted his head against the wall with a loud, exasperated clunk. Donut was oblivious to it, too absorbed in his own conclusions.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you say so? Okay, yeah, the throat, but… oh my god, I have to meet them, you never let me meet anyone you know. I know, I’ll make you some food real fast and then find somewhere to be, but I gotta meet them!”

This was not going well. Even barring the fact that the idea of dating Epsilon was unsettling—he’d only been sixteen last time Maine saw him, still a child, and despite ten years passing Maine couldn’t yet picture him any other way—this had just left Donut determined to stay.

Donut paced for a moment before he headed for the fridge, muttering to himself about what he could cook. Maine stopped clunking his head against the wall before looking around. Hoping perhaps that he’d find a piece of paper. But there was no notepad to be found.

A few floors down, Maine heard the distinctive noise of a bulldozer in the streets.

If Donut went out there, he’d see the bulldozer. If Maine went down there with Epsilon, they’d be sitting in a stolen bulldozer with no plan. If Epsilon came up here while Donut was up here, Donut would see his face and probably talk at a thousand miles per hour until the police rolled up while looking for the bulldozer. Maine needed Epsilon up here, and he needed Donut to not know about it.

“I do have some chicken… chicken’s not the most romantic of foods, but maybe I have the spices...” Donut muttered to himself. He retrieved some chicken from the freezer, then headed to the counter and dropped it there before he started rummaging through drawers.

Donut had his back turned.

The solution came to mind immediately. A quick smack in the right location, and Donut would go down like a bag of sparkly rocks. Not dead, but unconscious. Still, Maine wouldn’t be able to return after that.

And so Maine did hesitate.

Donut was now placing all that he needed to cook chicken on the counter. He’d put a sharp knife on the counter, and was now putting several spices on the counter beside it.

“Why am I so low on paprika?” Donut muttered under his breath.

Donut was annoying and chatty and never got what Maine meant when it was important. Despite all this, Maine quite liked Donut. Despite the annoyances, Donut was also friendly and not intimidated by him. Maine had forgotten what someone actually trying to talk to him was like.

But in the end, it came down to what was more important. Donut or Epsilon. And the answer was Epsilon.

Maine approached, and made to swing his arm at the spot that he knew would knock Donut out. He’d have to hope it didn’t kill him.

He quietly growled. If Donut had been able to understand him, he would have heard an apology.

At that moment, one of the little bottles of spice fell out of Donut’s hands. The lid popped off and spilled the contents onto the floor.

“Not my cayenne pepper!” Donut groaned, bending down just as Maine’s fist headed for him.

 

* * *

Donut reached down to pick up his spilled container of pepper, when Maine punched the counter and sent various bottles flying.

“Maine! What the hell?! Those were my best chicken spices!” Donut yelled, straightening up and looking at the mess on the counter. “If you didn’t want chicken—“

Maine swung another hand at him, though it was more of a panicked shove. It hit Donut and he stumbled back, one hand landing on the counter. All the wind was knocked out of him.

“Maine, stop! Alright! No chicken!” Donut rasped.

Maine advanced towards him, tight-lipped and staring intensely at him. He growled. The growl was soft, too soft for the movements.

“Maine, I said stop! Don’t make me use the safeword!”

Maine was getting closer.

“I said give me some space! Chrysanthemum!”

Maine did pause at ‘chrysanthemum’ but the expression on his face said it was more confusion than anything. Donut took his chance and swung his hand at Maine’s face, fingers digging into the skin. Well-manicured nails left three shallow scratches across Maine’s cheek.

Donut didn’t expect the high-pitched snarl—almost a yelp. Until he looked at his own fingers and saw that they were covered in the spices now spilt over the counter. Salt, peppers, grains of tiny fire in the shallow cuts on Maine’s skin.

Maine took a step back, one hand against his face. Bemusement on his face quickly turning into rage.

Donut’s hand shot out and grabbed the nearest item on the counter. The knife. He held it in front of him, though his grip shook a little from fear.

“I’m… sorry, Maine, but you… you have to back off! I’m armed! I’m good with knives, you saw that cake shaped like a unicorn I made! So… so step back, and calm down—”

Maine grabbed his wrist, twisting the hand gripping the knife away from him. Pain spasmed through that wrist. Fragile bird-like bones about to crack under the pressure. Maine’s other hand closed around Donut’s throat and squeezed.

Donut tried to get out of it. He tried to pull the hand away with his free one, and when that failed he tried scratching at Maine, leaving more shallow scrapes and scratches with grains of salt in them. Maine let out little hisses of breath at these, but this time didn’t move back. Donut flailed his legs, trying to kick Maine away, but any blows glanced off like he was hitting a brick wall.

He couldn’t breathe. His fingers and toes were starting to feel numb. He couldn’t even plead for mercy, there was no breath left to do it.

He was going to die, just because his room-mate didn’t want chicken on his date.

Donut’s vision started to go black. And a noise rang out through the apartment.

A series of happy, jubilant chimes that mimicked the pattern of a string of classical music, slightly distorted because Donut had bought a cheap doorbell. At the noise, conflicting so badly with the situation, Maine’s eyes widened and he turned his head in the direction of the door. His grip on Donut’s throat slackened just the tiniest bit.

Donut rasped for what little air he could manage. And with no other ideas, he swung his foot with all the force he had. His foot collided with Maine’s crotch, digging into something soft and squishy.

Maine didn’t make a sound. But his eyes bulged slightly and his grip disappeared completely. Donut wrenched himself away, and the knife was still in his hand.

No thoughts. Only adrenaline. Only fear.

Maine reached towards him again, face twisted in an ugly expression of pure fury. Donut’s face mirrored that expression, and he lunged. The knife thrust forward.

He hit Maine right in the throat, tearing through old scars to make new wounds.

The muted reaction to being kicked in the balls was nothing compared to this. Maine let out the most horrible, inhuman scream that Donut had ever heard, clutching his throat. The scream was accompanied by a choking, gurgling sound as blood clogged up his throat.

No thoughts. Only instincts.

Donut pulled the knife back and plunged it back into Maine, this time hitting Maine in the chest. And did it again. And again. And again.

It was all a blur. Strings of thick, red blood splattering across Donut, across Maine. At some point, they both ended up on the floor. And Donut just kept stabbing, not leaving a moment of respite. He heard more of that inhuman scream, and saw Maine still clawing at his throat. But soon the noise was drowned out by the sound of blood pounding through his ears.

Maine stopped thrashing. And for a moment, Donut stopped. Arms aching, the knife seeming to weigh a hundred times what it should have.

Maine stirred, and stared back at him. His mouth moved, but Donut couldn’t hear the sound he made. His face was pained, his eyes starting to glaze, but he seemed mostly focused on Donut. One hand reached up.

Donut didn’t wait to see what that hand would do. He shut his eyes and stabbed again, hitting the throat one more. This time, the knife twisted, grinding away at Maine’s throat.

The movement stopped. Donut tried to pull the knife back, and found that he couldn’t dislodge it.

He let go of the knife handle and flopped backwards to sit on the floor, breathing heavily. Eyes shut, blocking out the sight in front of him. The smell of blood was filling his nostrils. Thick, coppery, overpowering. He could feel it soaking his pants, puddling around him. It was everywhere. On his face, soaking his front. He could taste it.

Donut opened his eyes again. The thumping in his ears was fading. The adrenaline was being replaced by horror.

“Oh no. No, no, no,” Donut whimpered. He edged closer to Maine. There were occasional twitches in Maine, and every twitch made Donut want to jump back. But at the same time, little bits of hope flared in Donut’s chest every time there was a twitch.

He hadn’t wanted this.

But the twitches led to nothing else. Maine stared up at the ceiling, eyes blank and unseeing. The handle of the knife sticking out of his throat.

Donut put a hand on Maine’s shoulder and shook him. No response. Donut stared at Maine’s face, then shut his eyes and rested his hands on the floor. They touched blood and he yanked them back, but everywhere was covered in red.

“No. No, no, no...”

Donut stood and headed for the sink. His hands shook, stained and sticky. He turned on the water and stuck his hands underneath, and scrubbed at them until they were raw. But even when they were red only with irritation, even when they started to blister form the intense scrubbing, they still felt sticky.

The smell was still there.

Donut took a deep breath. Another deep breath. And then he doubled over and threw up in the sink.

 

* * *

Epsilon stood just outside the doorway to the kitchen, staring down at the corpse of Maine lying on the floor.

He’d waited outside the door, after ringing the doorbell and listening to the happy jingle. He’d been nervous. Fearful. But he always had been whenever Leo and the others had plotted crime. Crime made him nervous in general, especially after Washington. Especially after he’d thought Leo had been killed for it.

But it had been for good reasons, this time. It’d been alright. They were going to bring Leo out of prison, and that was worth anything. But then the screams…

Epsilon had opened the door. It’d been unlocked. He’d tried not to make noise, but all he’d heard was clunks and the squishing of meat, and the screaming. He hadn’t been able to tell it was Maine. He’d never heard Maine scream. Didn’t think Maine could.

And now he was staring at Maine. Lying on the floor, throat cut to bits. And a stranger—slightly familiar, but unrecognizable underneath the thick coat of blood—sitting next to him, eyes shut and breathing heavily.

Twenty-year-old memories, half-faded from time, seemed to play over Eddie’s vision. For a moment, Maine was his dad and the stranger next to him was Leo. Similar, but different. Worse.

Epsilon clasped a hand over his mouth before he could let out more than a squeak. The stranger didn’t seem to hear him. Epsilon ducked behind the doorway, back to the wall, trying not to make noise even as tears started to roll down his face.

He soon heard the running of water, followed by a retching noise. There was a pause, interrupted only by the sound of watery, unsteady breaths. Then the sound of buttons being pressed. Epsilon peeked past the doorway to see the stranger facing the sink, holding a mobile up to his ear.

“...Hello? You… you need to send an ambulance right now, there’s… there’s a knife in my roommate’s throat, you need to… he’s still twitching a little, maybe he can still be… yeah, sorry, I… yeah, my address, it’s...”

Epsilon ducked back behind the doorway and slipped out of the apartment. He didn’t bother to close the front door. Once he was far enough from the front door he sprinted down the rest of the staircases and out of the front door.

He climbed back into the bulldozer and started it up again, driving away from the building at the fastest speed a bulldozer could manage. He stopped a few blocks away, then rested his face against the steering wheel.

Meta had been the last person he had. They hadn’t talked for years. Epsilon had always thought that he died with Leo. But for a moment, he’d had Meta again. And the day he turned up…

People just kept dying around him, and that had always been true. He’d killed his mother. Then there was his father. Once he and Leo had run off to the city, there’d just been more death. Jimmy, Mickey, Sigma, Gary… Leo had been alive, but he hadn’t known…

It just kept happening. Delta and Theta still lived. But in Theta’s case, when Epsilon found out what he’d done… Theta was alive, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying on Epsilon’s part. There was no way he could go near either Delta or Theta after that, and after the two had lied to him for so long he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

And now Meta. Epsilon felt like the Grim Reaper.

Epsilon rested his face on the steering wheel, trying to force back the stinging in his chest.

He couldn’t ask for help. Not again. Even if he knew who to ask, he didn’t want anyone else to die. He’d just have to rescue Leo on his own, and hope that Leo didn’t die for real once Epsilon got near him.

Epsilon wiped his eyes, and started the bulldozer up again. He drove in the direction of Valhalla, even though it was still a fair way outside the city.

The cops wouldn’t pull him over for another few miles.

 

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Franklin Delano Donut**

**Date Of Interview: July 17** **th** **, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 1:40 P.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Utah**

 

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

 

**Utah: You think that your roommate tried to kill you over a dinner choice?**

**Donut: What other reason could he have had? He could have just taken the chicken away or something, I would have got that! He didn’t have to attack like that!**

**Utah: Is that really the only motive you could give?**

**Donut: Yes! Come on! Who’d want to kill me? I was a good roomie, alright? Once I knitted him a sweater.**

**Utah: We have some doubts that it was in self-defence. One stab, perhaps. But so many, particularly that stab to the throat…**

**Donut: I… I panicked. He started it! It was self-defence, he was strangling me! I… I didn’t want to kill him. I liked Maine. He was weird, and he had kind of a serial killer vibe at times because of the silence, but… I didn’t want to kill him. It was a mistake, and it wasn’t… it wasn’t my fault.**

 

* * *

Donut was allowed access to the phone as he awaited transfer to Valhalla. Not extensively, and it was awkward with the guard of the jail standing behind him, but it was something.

The thing was, he wasn’t really sure he wanted to talk to his mothers. Not about this. He didn’t want to hear what they thought of him after this. He wondered if they knew already. He didn’t know. The trial had been over fast.

Donut dialed the number and waited. The phone rang six times. Then it clicked and went over to voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached the Delano residence. No-one’s here right now,” Donut heard Mama Liz’s recorded voice say. “Just leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. After the beep. Beeeeeep.” That was followed by an actual beep.

Donut considered hanging up. He didn’t want to break the news to them over the phone. That felt horribly insensitive. But at the same time, it was the easiest.

“Um. Hi. It’s… it’s Donut. Something’s happened. Long story short… I’m in jail, going on to prison. You were right, the area was too dangerous and… and I guess my roommate just flipped out, and he tried to kill me. And I’m alive, obviously, but… anyway, I’ve been charged with second-degree murder. Life sentence, twenty years until possible parole. I told them it was self-defence, but...”

Donut sighed. He was using up space.

“Uh. I might not be able to call back for a while. I don’t know how phones work at Valhalla. And… and you might not want to talk to me. I can understand that. So, um… I’ll keep it short.

“Mama Julie, Mama Liz… you were the best parents a boy could have, and no matter what happens I love you so much. Also I still have some really good spices left in my apartment, although most of them, um… broke. But you can have those. No, I guess that’s dumb, I can’t exactly ship them to you.”

Donut stopped to make sure his voice wasn’t shaking. This was not a good time to cry.

“Sorry. Guess I’ll be putting off that visit to you guys for a lot longer than I thought. ...Bye. Love you.”

That was that, then. Donut hung up, and the guard took him back to the holding cell.

Next day, he’d be sent to Valhalla.


	28. Chapter Twenty: Old Oranges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif's attempts to get drunk are impeded by Caboose. Church and Tucker deal with the elephant in the room. Donut deals with a drunk Grif. Sarge visits Doc with a request.

It was easy to get Donut to leave him alone once he figured out how. Grif just had to pretend he was asleep. Then he didn't get those pity glances and all that 'are you doing alright' and 'do you want me to get you anything that isn't booze' garbage.

But that only worked with Donut. It didn't work with Caboose.

“Are you awake, Gruf?”

“Fuck off, Caboose,” Grif muttered into his pillow.

“...That is a no?” Grif heard his bunk squeak loudly as Caboose plopped onto it. “You are sad.”

“I’m fine. Fuck off.”

“I do not believe you.”

Grif lifted his head from the pillow a little to glare at Caboose, hoping it would make him fuck off. It didn’t. Caboose just blinked and tilted his head like he was trying to understand what Grif was doing.

“I want to make you happy,” Caboose said plaintively.

“What would make me happy is if you fucked off and let me sleep.”

“Too much sleep is bad for you. It makes you forget words and not talk and sometimes not breathe.”

Grif rolled over and continued to ignore Caboose. He felt weight lift from his bunk and Caboose’s footsteps leave the cell.

Once they had faded, Grif jumped off the bed and started rummaging around under it. Since the riot he'd been both making his own pruno and trying to bargain every little bit of alcohol that he could off the other inmates. He'd traded away half of the stuff that he'd accumulated in his cell over the years for it all, but finally he had enough to either put him in a coma or just kill him outright.

Either one would be great.

Grif picked up one of the bags of pruno. He didn't bother finding a cup. He just ended up drinking out of the bag, even though there were still disgusting lumps of orange and bread. Who cared. It was still alcohol.

He attempted to chug his way through the entire bag as quickly as possible. Ten tumblers worth. Five would have been enough to make most somewhat drunk. Ten even had an effect on Grif, whose tolerance for the stuff was near superhuman. By the time he was three quarters through it, the room was starting to spin a little. Not nearly enough, though.

As he drained the last of the first bag, he felt someone watching him. He looked up to see Caboose there. Again. Just watching.

"What the fuck do you want now?" Grif hiccuped.

"Nothing."

Grif snorted before picking up another bag. This one was tinier. Only about two tumblers. He'd got those two tumblers from Andy. He hadn't actually asked, he'd just stolen it from his cell. Small bag, but it was white lightning. It'd be enough to get him well and truly pissed.

He turned away from Caboose so he wouldn't have to see that ridiculous staring. But when he turned around, his eyes immediately landed on the stack of photos he'd taken from Simmons' cell. He moved over to the pictures and started looking at them again.

He'd been doing that since cleaning Simmons' cell up. He kept picking up the pictures and looking through them, like one of them would just spontaneously turn into a time machine and take him back to when the photos were taken. Or even better yet... take him back to before he ever met Simmons. Then he would never go to Simmons' apartment looking for a place to live. They would have never met and this would have been so much simpler.

Grif spent a long while staring at the photos. The next half-an-hour passed in a haze. The white lightning was drunk much more slowly than the bag of lumpy crap he'd first downed. But eventually it was all gone.

Pity. That stuff had been good. Burned in the good way. He was well and truly shitfaced now. He could barely manage to turn around without falling over. But it wasn’t enough. He was still awake. So instead he just flopped onto his stomach before reaching out for the third bag.

It wasn't there. Nor was the rest of it. The pruno was gone.

Grif's first thought, which came extremely slowly to him, was that Donut had taken it. That motherly fucker. ‘No, Grif, drinking yourself into a coma is bad for you.’ No fucking shit, Donut!

But Donut wasn't back yet. And he wouldn't have been quiet about taking it. Maybe it'd been Church or Tucker. Maybe they'd just wanted to get drunk. But no. They stayed away from him nowadays. They knew when not to get involved.

That left one guy.

"Caboose! You... you fucker!" Grif clambered to his feet unsteadily and stumbled towards Caboose's cell. "Did you steal my booze?!"

He didn't really have to ask. The two empty pruno bags were evidence enough. A strong smell of rotten oranges was coming from the toilet in the cell, indicating that Caboose had tried to flush some of it.

But that clearly hadn't worked well. Because Caboose was even more unsteady on his feet as Grif was. And holding the third bag, which was half empty.

"No. No, I did not," Caboose said slowly.

"Fucking liar! Give me back my stuff!"

"No. S'bad for you. Tried to throw it away. Stupid... stupid toilet is broken. Again. Bad time. But you... you cannot drink what is... drunk. Drinken. Drunken. You cannot drink drunk things." Caboose took a gulp of the pruno and gagged. "How do you drink it? It tastes like butt. Crumbly, orange butt."

"Yeah, it does! So give it back! Half a bag is still enough to knock me out!" Grif tried to snatch it out of Caboose's hand, but lost his balance and fell over.

"No. No knocking out. S'bad."

"What the fuck do you care?"

"I do not."

"Then give it!"

"Profittle… Profitter… Profiterole cares. And I do not want him to be sad. And he will be sad as long as you are sad. And you are trying to make comas. Comas are bad. They hurt and it is boring and hard to breathe." Grif made another lunge for the bag, but Caboose held it out of Grif's reach. When Grif went off -balance again and struggled not to fall over, Caboose quickly took another few gulps. He couldn't keep this up. He was having trouble just standing it and he was bright red in the face.

"You're gonna put yourself in a coma if you keep drinking my shit. Either from drinking too much or from me punching you in the face! Now give it!"

"No."

"Dammit. Why can't you annoy someone else?! Like Church or Donut or—"

"Church?" Caboose frowned. "Church..."

He stood still for a few moments. It was long enough for Grif to grab the bag out of his hands.

"Ha. Fuck you."

Caboose ignored him. He was looking in the direction of Church's cell. He seemed to have already forgotten about the pruno fight.

"...I need to... do... something..." Caboose lurched out of the room and towards Church's cell. Leaving Grif by himself once again.

Grif stared down at the remaining pruno. Barely any left. Not enough to knock him out. This grade-F piss was only good in mass and there was nowhere near enough left.

He didn't even bother to leave Caboose's cell. He just slid down the wall and sat there, drinking what little was left. The universe hadn't given him a break, after all. It just had to kick him in the balls again. Couldn't it at least kick him in the head, instead? That would probably knock him out for a few hours.

 

* * *

Church was lying on his cot, not really doing anything. Tucker had wandered off to attempt to find his way from one end of the cell block to the other with just the feel of his hands. The prison hadn't given him one of those canes, so he had to resort to using his hands. Church was just hoping no-one decided to attack Tucker while he was wandering around. He'd offered to go with, but Tucker said that he needed a break from the awkward silence.

As he gazed at the cracks at the ceiling, he heard a voice.

"You... you are stupid."

Church blinked and sat up. There were many things he never expected to hear. And Caboose telling him that he was stupid was just under Donut declaring he was straight.

"What?"

"You... you heard me," Caboose slurred. Was he drunk? Oh god, who let him near alcohol? That was something Church had always made sure to keep him away from.

"Yeah, I heard you, but... what?"

"I... I was your bestest buddy! I broke fingers for you! Fingers!" Caboose waved his own fingers around to emphasise and almost fell over when he did so. "I would have... I would have done so many things for you. Bad things! Because I thought you were the good guy and that you were the smartest guy ever and that you were always right."

"Hey, compared to you I'm a fucking genius."

"I know! I am... I am not good with... thought makey things. But you... you are almost as stupid sometimes!"

"Seriously?"

"Yes. You... you were all tonguey with Tucker."

"There was no tongue!" Church snapped.

"And that is stupid. Because Tucker is mean and a slut and a liar and I do not like him."

"Okay, is this going to be a repeat of that time when you accidentally called Tex a slut?"

"No. This is... this is on purpose. But that is not what I meant to talk about!" Caboose went quiet for a couple of minutes, then, because he got distracted by a fly that was buzzing around the ceiling. His attention wasn't great at the best of times, the alcohol couldn't have helped. Eventually he remembered what he was ranting about. "He shoved you. He hurt you. And I was just trying to help you. And you... you were all shouty and mean. And you yelled about... about Mama. Even though... even though you were the one that told me it did not happen. You made me believe that! And... and you should not be able to shout at me for what I did to Mama. You killed your papa. Your brother. You should yell at yourself, as well."

Church was briefly tempted to yell back about how he'd at least killed his father for a reason, and that he'd never killed Eddie at all. But he held his tongue. It would just be stupid to tell Caboose the truth. He'd never keep it a secret. Instead, Church just said, "Do you have a point somewhere in this crap?"

"Yes. Tucker will be bad for you. He is a liar. And you could have... I could have protected you. But... you made bad mistakes. And you yelled at me and lied and then unlied and then lied again during the riot just so I would help stupid Tucker... and Lemon Meringue Pie might have lied sometimes but he is a lot more... unlying than you were... and I just..." Caboose blinked a few times. Struggling with his words again. Though Church got the feeling that this time it wasn't simply because he'd forgotten the words. "I just wanted to say that I will not do it anymore. It is... it is finished."

"Big loss."

"And... and also..." Caboose paused for a few seconds before covering his mouth. "My stomach feels like old oranges."

"Okay, how much did you drink?"

"Um. Almost... two."

"Two tumblers? Fucking lightweight."

"No. Two... two bags."

"Bags?! You drank two bags? Full-sized bags? Why aren't you dead?!"

"I... I do not..." Caboose trailed off. And then he doubled over, retched and threw up on the floor.

"Oh, gross." Church sighed and climbed off his cot. He stepped over the puddle of puke. "Okay, you really need to go to the infirmary. Can you walk there by yourself?"

"I can... I can walk just..." Caboose attempted to walk and almost fell over after just a couple of steps. Church slapped his forehead.

"Okay. I'll help you get there. But only because I don't want you throwing up all over my cell."

"Yeah... I know that is why…"

Church grabbed Caboose's forearm and started to half-drag him towards the infirmary. He didn't help Caboose entirely out of a desire to see his cell puke-free. Caboose did have a bit of a point. Church had probably jerked him around a lot more than he should have. It was amazing that it had taken Caboose so long to wise up to it.

But he definitely didn't feel guilty. Not at all. Not even a little. Okay, maybe a little. But just a little. Only because it was like lying to a five-year-old. And because Caboose's ramblings about Church being the smartest ever and always right had reminded him a little of when Eddie was a little kid.

Church had fucked up numerous times back then. What with getting them mixed up in crime and all. And Eddie had never doubted him for a second because of that exact reason, even when he was older.

Apparently Church hadn't learned much in the last fifteen years.

 

* * *

After assuring a stern and somewhat worried Sheila that Caboose drinking two bags of fermented orange juice wasn't a regular occurrence, Church returned to the cells. He returned without any shoes, as Caboose had thrown up on them. It reminded Church of why he never did nice things. It always ended with ruined shoes.

As he looked around for someone he could blackmail into giving him their boots, he found Tucker sitting in some random inmates' cell.

"Tucker? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Uh, waiting for you to get back, dumbass."

"You realise this isn't my cell, right? Or yours?"

Tucker frowned, got to his feet and started feeling the walls. "Dammit. I knew something was off. But I thought I had it this time."

Church rolled his eyes. "Come on. You're not even in the right block." He grabbed Tucker's arm and steered him out.

"Why aren't you wearing any shoes?" Tucker asked.

"How'd you even know?"

"Dude, your footsteps are too quiet. It's kinda obvious. What else am I supposed to pay attention to?"

"Oh. Caboose threw up on them. Someone gave him two bags of pruno. Also, he says you are a liar and a slut and a horrible influence and so on. Just warning you in case he comes back while wasted."

"Well, can't exactly argue with it," Tucker said cheerfully.

"Yeah…"

When they got close to their cells, they saw York standing in front of Church's cell, holding a mop and attempting to clean up the mess Caboose had made. York looked up as they approached.

"Hey." York raised the mop and used the handle to block Church and Tucker's way. "What'd you do, drink your own body weight?"

"Wasn't me."

"Eh, never mind. I wouldn't go in your cell at the moment, Church. Unless you want to mop up?" York said hopefully.

"Fuck no."

"Lame. I mean, technically, I'm allowed to order you to do it, but then you'll give me that look and suddenly the other inmates will be out for my blood.”

"Hey, I'm not that petty." When York opened his mouth, Church added quickly, "Still ain't mopping."

"Well, can you at least hold my mop? I need to find some more paper towels."

"Uhhh…"

"Thank you." York handed Church the mop before running off to look for paper towels. Church shook his head before turning around and steering Tucker into his cell.

"Okay, I gotta stay here. My cell's all sticky," Church grumbled.

"I know. I was there, dumbass. I can still hear," Tucker said. He felt his way towards the cot and flopped down on it. Church just stood in the corner, holding York's mop. And the awkward silence immediately returned.

…

……

……...

"Uh..." Church mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Then why'd you go 'uhhh?’”

"I'm just thinking, alright? Shut the fuck up."

"I was until you started making noises!" Tucker snapped back.

"Well, fine. I'll stop!"

"Good!" Tucker yelled.

"Fine!" Church retorted.

"...What the fuck are we yelling about?!"

"I don't know!"

Tucker sat up, rubbing the side of his head. "Shit. It's the fucking elephant."

"What?"

"The elephant. The elephant in the room. The big, awkward thing that we're not talking about. Which is just making everything else even more awkward."

If Tucker had eyes, he'd probably be staring rather intensely at Church. But Church was still gonna deny everything. He didn't want to go through another bitchfest.

"There's no fucking elephants,” he muttered.

"Yes, there is!" Tucker snapped. "Don't bullshit me, Church. There's an elephant sitting in the corner. A giant, ceramic elephant with rainbows painted all over it and covered in glitter. A giant homo elephant."

"That's stupid."

"It's not stupid! And it's your fault it's there in the first place!"

"Is not! You're the one imagining things!"

"Oh yeah, sure. I just imagined you shoving your tongue down my throat!"

"There was no tongue!" Church yelled. "Why does everyone keep saying there was? You don’t know me!"

"Besides, whenever you grab my wrist for some reason you always go 'this isn't gay.' Plus, you look at dinosaurs and see dildos!" Tucker said, brandishing his hands at the wall of Junior’s pictures.

"Hey, that particular dinosaur just happens to look like a dildo, alright? That has nothing to do with anything! And I'm not gay, alright? I dated Tex, didn't I?"

"Yeah, so? Maybe she was just your beard."

"Look, if I'd wanted a beard I would have chosen someone who wasn't a cop. Besides, you're the one who bangs guys."

"I called no homo. Besides, I was on the top and it's not gay unless you touch the wieners. I just take what I can get, alright? I'm not a freak of nature like you, I can't go twenty years without sex."

"This is the stupidest conversation I've heard for ages... and it is ending right now."

"There's still a giant, gay elephant in the corner!"

"No, there isn't!"

Naturally, York chose that moment to return for his mop, and he added, "Giant, gay elephants? ...I can kinda see it."

"This isn't your fucking business, York!"

"Whoa, easy. Just gimme my mop back and I'll be on my way." Church handed it to him and York went back to cleaning up the mess. Church turned back to Tucker.

"Fine, Tucker. Say, hypothetically, that there is a 'gay elephant' in the room," Church said, sketching quotation marks in the air with his fingers, lowering his hands awkwardly when he remembered that Tucker wouldn’t be able to tell. "So what? You called no homo. So if we talk about it, it'll just end up with another screaming match. There will be shoving and yelling, we'll storm off without talking to each other and the entire bitchfest will start all over again."

"We're dissolving into arguments anyway! Just because one of us said 'uh.'"

"You started that fight."

"I know, but... come on, you're an angry douchebag. You would have gotten pissed off at something stupid soon, anyway."

"Guilty as charged. What's the big deal? So things are a little awkward? That's not the end of the world.”

"Easy for you to say," Tucker muttered bitterly. "Do you know how hard it is to hang around you with this awkwardness? And I kinda need—uh, never mind."

"What?"

"Never mind!"

"You brought up this stupid conversation! You can't just end it like that. What? You need what, Tucker?"

"I... look. This being blind thing is fucking me up, alright? It's, like... it's not like being in the dark. It's not the same as that. It's like... you know when you hear something behind you and you can't look around for some reason? It's like that. But for everything. I know things are there, but I can't see it and it freaks the hell out of me. I... I never know who's there. Who isn't there. I can never quite figure out where I am. It’s like I’m floating in this big, featureless void. And it scares the hell out of me."

"...You never look scared."

"Con artist!” Tucker yelled, gesturing wildly at himself. “I’m a con artist! And looking like I’m fine with this is the biggest con I’ve ever pulled!” Tucker covered his face, rubbing his face awkwardly. “And… and when you’re there, it’s...”

He paused for a moment, sighed and removed his hands from his face. His face had gone slightly pink.

“Look, no homo or anything. But things make more sense when you’re there. I know I can’t literally see you, but it feels like I can. And you know what? That makes it easier to pretend. Sometimes, it even makes things feel okay. Like, for real. And I need that. You have no idea how badly I need that. I can’t lose it just because of some sparkly elephant.”

Silence fell. Church had no idea what to say to that. Tucker shifted awkwardly before laughing. A stilted, uncomfortable laugh.

“And there it is again. The awkward silence. I could see that coming a mile away.”

“Sorry. I… fuck, I don’t know.” Church moved across the cell and sat down next to Tucker on the cot. “...So, what? What do we do?”

“Well… I dunno. I guess I couldn’t get you to focus the weird, gay feelings on some other inmate, could I?”

“I’m not gay, man.”

“Then what the hell is with this?”

“I don’t know. It’s not all guys, it’s… it’s basically just you. Just like girls was basically just Tex. I don’t know what’s up, I don’t know why I like what I like. Hell, I thought I would have had better taste than you.”

"Better taste? What do you mean, 'better?' I am the best-tasting guy in this—okay, fuck it, we can debate that later, that was getting weird.” Tucker scratched the back of his neck before frowning thoughtfully at the wall.

Silence fell again. This time it wasn’t so much awkward as pensive. Church, on his part, was mostly distracted by the visual of a literal elephant covered in glitter. And had perhaps gotten a little distracted from Tucker referring to himself as ‘best-tasting.’

Eventually, the silence was shattered when Tucker let out a long, exaggerated groan.

“I can’t believe I’m going to suggest this. But… but I guess… we could give it a try?”

“...What?”

“I said—“

“No, I heard you, I have ears and you’re right there. You serious? Because I swear to god, Tucker, if you are messing with me—“

“I’m not messing with you. I’m not saying for sure that I’ll be able to stick with it. I mean, I’m not gay either. And… fuck, I don’t know what this is, but—”

“Wait. No. Tucker, listen.” Church shifted a little and took a deep breath. “Look. I know I made shit weird. I don’t want you grabbing my dick or anything because it’s what you think you have to do. That’s not cool. Whatever weird shit I’m feeling… you know, that’s my problem. Not yours. I’m not going to fuck off if you’re not into it.”

“Alright. That’s nice and all, but it doesn’t really change much.” Tucker shrugged. “I guess… y’know, I thought about it a little. And it’s like… what’s the worst that can happen?”

“It ends messy. We end up hating each other. You send someone to shiv me for breaking your heart and taking your ass virginity,” Church rattled off.

“Hey, if anyone’s taking anyone’s ass virginity—“

“Er, too late.”

“Oh, come on, you said you weren’t—“

“Tex,” Church muttered sheepishly.

“Oh. Ohhh-hooo, okay.” Tucker laughed. “Yeah, she seems like she’d be into that. But back on topic, away from the subject of pegging… I mean, I’m sure assassins won’t enter the picture if it goes bad. We can just be all ‘this didn’t work’ and move the fuck on. And if it works… well, then we won’t have to worry about it.”

“Ugh, you’re going to use your blindness to pretend I’m a chick, aren’t you?” Church grumbled.

Tucker grinned even wider. “Yeah. It took me getting blinded to get over how ugly you are.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too.”

Tucker’s grin faded pretty fast. They stared at each other. Well, Church stared at Tucker. Tucker just faced his direction. Church didn’t know how to start this. He reached forward, but his hand kinda hovered a few inches from Tucker. What the fuck did he do? It hadn't been this difficult with Tex. Had it? They'd been pretty drunk the first time they did anything.

"Alright. Alright, then..." Church muttered.

"Alright," Tucker repeated quietly.

Neither of them moved, though. Sure, Church had kissed Tucker once before. But that had been quick and spur-the-moment. Church jammed up, his fingers still hovering inches from Tucker, unsure as to what to do.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sensing the vague movement, Tucker reached out and tried to figure out what Church was doing. He located Church's hand. "How long has that been hovering there? You wussing out?"

"No! Just... uh... something."

"You’re a giant baby."

"I don't see you moving forward."

"Okay... okay, uh... fine, I guess I'll just, uh..." Tucker leaned forward. Church shifted a bit closer. But then they came to a halt again. After a few seconds of closing and opening his hand nervously, Church reached forward to touch Tucker's face. His fingers traced the old scar that O'Malley had left there. Then he reached out with his other hand, grasped Tucker's arm and tugged him forward.

They hovered uncomfortably for a few seconds, inches from each other, before Tucker muttered, "Fuck this," and closed the distance, pressing his lips against Church's.

It was warm. Church shouldn't have been surprised, but he just kept recalling the bad dreams where Tucker looked dead and felt icy cold.

It only lasted a few seconds before there was a loud ‘ahem’ from the entrance to the cell. Church and Tucker both sprung away from each other, and Church turned to see Donut watching the two of them.

After a moment, Donut’s only response was, “That was really gay.”

“No homo,” Tucker said immediately.

“Full homo,” Donut responded.

“What the fuck, Dye-Job? How long have you been there? And what the fuck happened to your face?”

Donut covered his nose, which looked like it had been broken, and ignored the latter question. “Ten seconds? Honestly, I’m just surprised you addressed that giant, glittery elephant in the corner.”

“Told you,” Tucker said.

“You are not helping,” Church said to  


“Wasn’t trying to,” Donut said before leaving.

Silence descended once more, though Tucker quickly broke it.

"Well... that was weird.”

"What? The kiss or Donut walking in all bloody?" Church asked.

"Erm. Both. The whole thing was…"

"Awkward."

"Yeah." There was only a tiny stretch of silence before Tucker grinned and said, "The first part could have been worse."

 

* * *

Grif had been curled up on the ground of Caboose's cell, half-asleep, when he felt someone nudge him with their foot.

"Pruno isn't going to help, Grif... and why are you in Caboose's cell?"

Grif looked up at Donut, who was drastically out of focus and stood over him with his arms crossed, before flopping onto his other side and flapping his hand slightly.

"Fuck off, Donut."

"How much did you drink?"

"Er. One and a bit bags. Plus, a couple of tumblers of white lightning. Not enough. You got any more?"

"Grif! You... urgh, I leave for less than an hour and this happens? I... urgh..." Donut rubbed his forehead. "I told Caboose to keep an eye on you while I was gone... where'd he go?"

"Fuckin' moron stole the rest of my pruno. Flushed some. Drank most of it. Then he wandered off to yell at someone, what do I know? I'm not his babysitter. And I don't need one, either."

"Oh god, that's... that's not good." Donut turned away from Grif for a few moments, still rubbing his forehead. "Um... okay. I... I guess, uh... you feel alright?"

"I'd feel even better if he hadn't taken my booze. Seriously, you got any more?"

"No..." Donut turned back to Grif, gazing down at him. "Okay... so, you're not feeling sick? You don't need to go to the infirmary?"

"Fuck no."

"Then... then I'm going to help you back to your cell. You can sleep it off, alright?"

"Seriously, just a few more tumblers and I'll be able to fall asleep. Just a few more," Grif insisted as Donut knelt and slung Grif's arm over his shoulders. "Just a few more, come on. You can get it from someone."

"Can you stand?"

"Fuck off, I'm not standing."

"Grif... please just use your damn feet." There was an edge in Donut's voice that Grif didn't hear much. But Grif still refused.

"No."

"Crap." Donut tried to pull Grif to his feet. "Huuuurgh. God, how much do you weight? A bajillion pounds?"

That grumpy remark reminded Grif far too much of something Simmons would say when he was annoyed at him. For a moment, it made him want to cry. But then it made him feel weird. It filled the empty black space inside him for just a brief moment. But once the moment was gone he felt emptier than ever.

"So, you gonna start calling me a fatass?"

"Well, lying on the floor drinking fermented orange juice isn't going to help your weight. Huuuurgh." Donut tugged again and managed to pull Grif into a proper sitting position. "Can you please just get up?"

Grif only half-heard that. Now that Donut was closer, his face was properly in focus. It was a mess. There was dried blood over a significant portion of the lower half, having leaked from an obviously broken nose, and there were bruises rising in a colourful pattern across most of his face.

It felt like someone had dumped cold water across Grif’s face. He suddenly felt significantly more sober.

“Who did that to you?” Grif asked. Voice quiet and chilly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Donut said grimly. “I’m fine. Come on, up you get.”

“Seriously, who the fuck did that to you?”

“It doesn’t—“

“Did O’Malley attack you again?!”

“And if he had, would you go charging off to get vengeance? Would you cause another corpse to end up on the floor?!” Donut yelled. Immediately, he clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes as wide as the bruising would allow.

It was dead quiet.

“I… I didn’t mean that,” Donut whispered.

“No. No, you did.” Grif shifted a little, moving his sitting position so he was leaning against the bars of Caboose’s cell. “And you know what? You’re absolutely fucking right. It probably would end that way. That’s the fucking pattern.”

Grif looked at the plastic bag still clasped in his hand before looking up at Donut. Donut couldn’t keep eye contact for more than a couple of seconds.

“...Maybe it is best if you don’t tell me,” Grif said.

“Sorry,” Donut mumbled.

“Fuck, it’s not your fault. It’s not like you’ve got fist magnets in your face.” Grif wrapped a hand around one of the bars and pulled himself up. “Should… should get that nose checked or something.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t be dumb. See a doctor.” Grif let go of the bars and almost collapsed immediately, the world swirling in an alarming way. Donut quickly grabbed him, slinging his arm back over his shoulders.

“Come on, heavy,” Donut sighed.

Donut led Grif back to his cell before guiding him to the cot. He retrieved the sheets and threw them over Grif, tucking him in like he was five years old. Grif kind of wanted to scream at him for treating him like a child. At the same time, it was kind of comforting in an odd, disquieting way.

“Do you need anything else?”

“For you to see a doctor,” Grif grumbled.

“I’ll go once we’re done, alright?”

“Then whatever. Sleep. Sleep’s what I need.”

“Alright. Alright, just...” Donut kept trying to tidy up the sheets, although it didn't do any good. Motherly fucker. His eyes went left. He saw the photos that Grif had left on the footlocker. He took a step towards them.

“Don’t touch those!” Grif snapped, causing Donut to flinch. A little wave of guilt coursed through his stomach. Grif frowned and said, in a quieter tone of voice, “It’s private, alright?”

“Alright.” Donut stepped away from the photos. He reached out and touched Grif’s forehead briefly, pushing greasy, unwashed hair out of his face. Donut wrinkled his nose, but didn’t say anything about it. “I’ll be back soon. Please don’t… don’t be a dumbass while I’m gone, alright?”

There was a brief flare of warmth somewhere inside Grif, then he felt worse than before. Grif made a vaguely affirmative noise in response.

Once Donut was gone, Grif couldn't be bothered to even think about disobeying him. He just stayed curled up and stared at the wall, while various insults that Simmons had once flung at him bounced around in his head.

 

* * *

"It's quite surprising you didn't kill yourself, with that amount of alcohol. Especially for a first timer. Erm, was that the first time?"

"Yes," Caboose groaned. He wasn't throwing up any more, but his stomach still felt gross. "Although... once Dad gave me some beer, when I was sixteen."

Sheila raised an eyebrow. "Did he, now?”

"Yes. It was for a party. But that was before I was stupid. There were no parties after I was stupid."

"Well, I'll keep you here for a while. See how you do. If you get better, I'll let you go back."

Caboose nodded, still clutching the bucket. As he did, he heard footsteps outside. The door opened. Donut was there. His face was badly smooshed.

“Croissant, what happened to your face? Did someone hurt—hrrgh!” Caboose heaved mid-sentence, bending over the bucket and dry heaving into the bucket. “Blergh.”

“Walked into a door. Don’t worry about it.”

“Sit down, Donut,” Sheila said. “A… door, you say?”

“Yeah. Door.”

“That door looks like it hit you multiple times,” she said doubtfully.

“Yeah. Clumsy me,” Donut said flatly before crossing the room and sitting next to Caboose. He moved to give him a quick hug, but stopped when he caught the smell of pruno and vomit. “Ew, gross. Church said you were here. Are you alright?”

"I do not like prison juice," Caboose mumbled.

"Well, it's okay in small doses. Grif just went a little overboard this time."

Sheila frowned as she reached for her box of disposable gloves. "Grif? Is that his last name?"

"Oh. Yeah. Uh, are you going to tell the warden he was drinking?" Donut asked. "Please don't. He'll get thrown in the shoe and it'll be really hard for me to keep an eye on him... He didn't mean to give Caboose so much. By the way, Caboose... when I ask you to make sure Grif doesn't drink, don't try to stop that by drinking his booze. You'll just hurt yourself."

"I am sorry."

"It's okay."

Sheila was still frowning. After a few moments, she climbed to her feet and went to the back of the infirmary, where she kept the patient files. Meanwhile, Donut sat down next to Caboose on the cot.

"I'll stay here for a while before checking on Grif again. I think he was going to sleep, anyway. That alright with you?"

"Yes, Long John."

Donut still had his nose wrinkled from the icky smell, but he clung to Caboose's arm tightly. He felt slightly shaky. Or maybe Caboose was still wobbling around, and so it just felt like Donut was shaky. But Caboose was pretty sure it was Donut.

Caboose leaned forward, ignoring the wave of nausea as he did so, to try and look properly at Donut's face. It was bruised and bloody. Caboose wondered if it was really a door. If it wasn’t, he would have to find who did it. He wasn’t allowed to kill people. But fingers… fingers were okay if it was the only way.

"Are you feeling sad, Cornish Pastry?"

"What?"

"You look sad."

"Oh." Donut smiled at him. It was a very fake smile, though. Like the kind Church makes when he is being sarcastically happy. "Sorry. This better?"

"No. It is worse."

"Ahhh." The smile fell off again. "Sorry. Just... I was just thinking about things."

"Did I make you sad? Did I do something wrong again? I do that a lot."

"No, no, no. You're not making me sad," Donut said. There was a little smile then, but it was a sad one. And again, it quickly vanished.

Caboose frowned and reached out to touch Donut's face, avoiding the patches that had turned purple. Donut didn't flinch from the contact, he just closed his eyes. Caboose pet his face for a couple of moments before talking.

"Being sad does not suit you. You should be smiley. Everything feels happier when you are smiley."

"That's sweet. But I'm just not in a smiling mood."

"Can I make you smiley?" He reached out with his other hand and tried to pull Donut's cheeks up to make it look like he was smiling. Donut let out a little hiss of pain and Caboose quickly let go. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. I don’t think smiling is that easy, though.”

"Is there anything I can do to help? Because you are always the one making me happy and I want you to be happy, too."

Donut didn't reply. He just clung to Caboose's arm tighter and snuggled into his shoulder.

That was not a yes. But Caboose could still find a way to try.

Sheila came back a couple of minutes later, holding one of the folders from the boxes that had all the medical information. She stopped by her desk, flicking through the file. Donut raised his head a little, watching.

"Why are you reading Grif's files?"

"Just checking some information," Sheila muttered. "And reflecting on how small a world it is."

"Small world? I don't get it."

"Doesn't matter. It's unimportant.” Sheila put the files aside before turning to Donut. “Come over here. Let me have a look at that nose, Donut.”

 

* * *

Sarge hammered rather violently at Doc's door. "Oi! Hippy! Open the door!"

"Calm down, don't be so loud. Or violent. The door doesn't deserve that," Doc said quietly, opening the door. "Also, I'm not a hippy."

"Son, you're a pacifist and you like yoga. That makes you both a hippy and an unmanly influence on this prison. But that ain't the problem here."

"Oh. Sorry. What's the problem?"

Sarge sat down on the sofa, making himself immediately comfortable. "You ain't interviewed none of the staff yet."

"You mean for whether they need therapy?"

"I don't mean for television shows, beatnik."

"I just assumed that they'd all been interviewed before being hired. It seems silly to hire people without checking their history or analyzing their behavior." Though even as Doc said this, his mind jumped to Wash. He'd heard many rumours about Wash being insane, and even though Doc thought the rumours were a little exaggerated, he didn't disbelieve them entirely.

“We never had the staff to do that. And normally I’d say it was a waste of time. Talking and feelings… that’s not what a guard does. But, well...” Sarge clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them, leaning forward slightly. “Listen here, yippie. Did any of the inmates say anything to you? About guards abusing their power?”

“No. None of them said much about the guards at all.”

“What about rapings? Or attempts at it? About guards letting it happen under their watch?”

“No, they—“ Doc paused. Remembered Donut, remembered the stitches in O’Malley’s tongue. “...I mean, there might have been an attempt. But I thought it’d been reported. And it wasn’t done by guards.”

“Well, I’ve been hearing things. Or rather, someone bellowed those things at my face. Some aggots he had, let me tell you. And recently I seen him wandering around with a busted face. I asked him about it and he’d just mutter under his breath. Now inmates have a code, and that code is not to talk to us. But if there’s corrupt shenanigans going on under my watch… I want to know about it.”

“I don’t know if they’d tell me,” Doc said. “They’d know I’d have to inform you.”

“But you can analyze them, nature freak. You can look straight into their eyes and deep into their corrupt, twisted souls, and go ‘aha, you dirtbag! I knew it!’ And then you tell me, and I’ll go ‘aha! Dirtbag.’ And give them a good kick in the nads!”

“It might be better if they’re evaluated on the outside,” Doc suggested. “By someone more, um...” He struggled for a word that wasn’t ‘professional’ or ‘competent.’

“Are you going to do your job or not, you three-dollar bill?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll do my job.”

“Great! It starts right now!” Sarge crossed the room and flopped down onto the sofa. "Now, you have to sit there and listen to whatever I say, don't you?"

"Um. Sure."

"Excellent."

What followed was an hour of ranting about the people who'd decided he was unfit to be a warden any more, his wife making him sleep in the garage last night because he'd come in smelling like whiskey again, the establishment, the fact that there weren't enough wars nowadays, the colour blue, Flowers and about how he couldn't order pina coladas and other various fruit-flavoured drinks without being considered queer.

Once he was done, he said, "Well, kook? How do I rate on the insanity scale? Pretty good, I bet?"

"Well... I don't want to be rude, but you do seem to have some anger issues and an obsession with the colour blue."

"I think I need to repeat myself. How did I rate on the insanity scale?"

"...Good. No anger issues or unhealthy obsessions with colour shades at all."

"Damn right.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-One: Smite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash takes the flag away, and causes the zealots to scheme. Sheila gives Grif a warning. Donut faces yet another problem, and has had enough of it.

"Wash. What the hell are you doing?"

York stood in the currently empty yard. It was too early for any inmates to be out, they were probably going through roll call at the moment. He was still half-asleep and wishing for coffee. It was far too early to be wondering about Wash's weird behavior.

Like why he was currently standing on top of a ladder and trying to pull the Red Flag down.

"What does it look like?"

"I don't know, I can barely see. It's too early."

"I'm just taking down the flag."

"Did Sarge say you could do that?"

"Who cares? He's pretty much fired." Wash was trying to tug down the flag, but Sarge had made sure the flag was difficult to get down, in order to stop those 'goddamn Blues' from stealing it. "Those crazy flag worshipers keep stirring up trouble. There was the Walter thing, the attack on Sheila and everything they did during the riot. They cause problems. And it's all based around worshiping this stupid piece of fabric. I'm taking it down."

"Don't you think it might cause more problems? You're going to start a riot."

"Am not."

"Yes, you are. You're going to start a huge bloodbath," York muttered. "They'll probably start gutting anyone they deem 'blue' in order to make the flag come back. You're going to start a colorcide, Wash. Do you want to start a colorcide?"

"You're overreacting." Wash finally managed to pull down the flag and started climbing down the ladder.

"Look, if it was anyone else I'd agree. But those zealots are nuts."

"Yeah. I know. But it's worth a try. If they start acting up... well, there's only a few of them. Shouldn't be that hard to deal with."

"Where'd you even get a ladder?"

"I brought it here."

"Seriously? You brought your own ladder?"

"Explain how else I was supposed to get up there."

"I'll figure something out later,” York yawned. “I need to find some coffee."

"Alright. But help me carry this ladder back to my car. Or hold the flag."

"I'm not holding the flag. If the zealots see me, they'll think I took it down. And you'd have a better chance at lying and convincing them that you're not kidnapping their god.”

"Point taken. You can hold the ladder. It folds up."

They started walking back to the parking lot, York dragging the ladder behind him while Wash carried an armful of fabric that had the power to inspire people into psychotic rage.

"So, I hear Doc has been following you around lately."

"Mmhm." Wash sighed and muttered, “It’s getting harder to hide from him. He wised up to me being in the laundry room.”

“You might not be able to avoid him for much longer. I heard he has to interview staff next,” York said.

“Nope.”

“I don’t think you can just say ‘nope’ to that. They might fire you if you don’t let them check your mental state.”

“Like anyone in this prison really cares about Doc’s judgment on these matters,” Wash said. “He only has the job because I made it up for him. If he says I’m unfit for work that says worse about him.”

York shrugged. “Next warden might not realise that. Next warden might actually look at your records.”

“I’m sane. Completely—“

"Completely and totally sane, yeah, I know. I’m just saying, can’t hurt to reinforce that.”

Wash only grunted in reply. York couldn't figure out if it was an agreeable or disagreeable grunt.

"So... you want to go drinking later?" York asked after a few moments of silence.

Wash came to a brief halt, staring at him. "I thought we didn't do that anymore."

"No, I said not for a while. I'm okay with drinking with you at the moment. Unless you do something douchey."

"Fair enough."

They kept walking. Wash looked a little more cheerful. Even though York was the only person in this prison who'd be able to tell.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Grif's pruno really was able to render people almost comatose. If only through the use of hangovers. Donut was having trouble dragging both Grif and Caboose out of their beds. Why did it have to be the two heaviest guys in this row?

"Grif! Come on! Hrrrrgh! It's breakfast time!”

"Shut up. And not hungry."

"Yes, you are. You're Grif, you're always hungry. Now come on. Please?"

"Nngh." Grif just buried his face in his pillow in an effort to shut Donut out.

This time, Donut gave up fairly quickly. Getting Grif out of bed was tough most days. The hangover made it downright impossible. Grif didn't look like he was going to move, so hopefully it was safe to leave him alone for a little while. He had no more alcohol to attempt binge drinking into a coma, anyway.

It was just as futile a task to get Caboose out of bed. His first hangover was hitting him hard.

"I cannot see. Did Tucker steal my eyes?!" Caboose yelled, when Donut prodded him. "Ow! My voice is hurting me! It is still hurting me! Owowowow."

"Caboose, you're hungover. It just means you're not going to like bright light or noises until you feel better."

"So, Tucker did not steal my eyes?"

"Dude, I wish." Tucker had been feeling his way around the cells again, and was currently across from Caboose's cell, patting the walls. "I mean, if I had your eyes I could do that weirdly effective puppy eyes shit you do. And my ability to con people would just skyrocket."

Caboose whimpered a little and covered his eyes. "He is going to steal them. And I cannot hurt him to make him go away because that is a bad thing now."

"Caboose, hurting people was always bad. That didn't just start now. Dumbass," Tucker grumbled. Caboose made a noise of protest at the loud talking and threw a shoe in Tucker's direction. "Hey! I heard something clunk near me. Is he throwing things?"

"Shoes," Donut said.

"Jerk."

"Tractor," Caboose muttered. He pulled the blankets over his head. "I do not want to move."

"Yeah, hangovers are rough. But come on, it's breakfast time. I'll give you my orange juice."

"I do not want orange juice at the moment. It tastes like the alcamahol."

"Then I'll give you my cereal."

After a few seconds of consideration, Caboose pushed aside the blankets and climbed to his feet, although he was still wincing. "Okay. Cereal is good."

They walked off towards the cafeteria. On the way, they passed Sheila.

“Sheeeeilaaaa,” Caboose said cheerfully before wincing. “Ow.”

“Learning the consequences of drinking, Caboose?” Sheila asked, smiling slightly.

“Yes,” Caboose mumbled.

“Good.” Sheila nodded at him before heading further into the cell block.

 

* * *

 

Grif still had his face buried in his pillow when he heard a voice.

"It really is a small world. I knew you went to prison, but I didn't think it was the same one."

Grif moved enough to see someone standing in the doorway. The figure was still blurry and hard for him to make out. All he could really tell was that it was a tall, blocky woman.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want?" Grif mumbled.

"I take it you don't recognise me. Reasonable enough. We only met once. Well, I saw you twice. Once when you came into the hospital, but you were unconscious at that time."

Hospital? The last time Grif had been in the hospital was the car accident that had stopped him from going on the run. Grif squinted at the figure in the doorway. Now that he focused on her, she did seem vaguely familiar. But his hungover brain wasn't turning up any answers.

"You're gonna have to help my memory along, lady."

"Very well. My name is Dr. Sheila Filss. I visited you once when you were conscious to tell you that you weren't receiving charges for—"

"Oh, yeah. I remember that. ...Wait, what are you doing in here? Am I hallucinating? Weird thing to hallucinate," Grif said. Sheila wasn't particularly annoying him like everyone else was, lately. Perhaps because she wasn't doing the pity stare or treating him like glass. It was a nice change.

"Like I said. It's a small world. I'm the prison doctor."

"Oh. Okay. Didn't realise it, you only called yourself Filss on the outside and everyone else has been calling you Sheila. So, what the hell did you want?"

"I'm simply here with a warning. Stop giving Caboose alcohol. In fact, leave Caboose alone entirely."

"What alcohol?" Grif automatically lied, although it was pretty useless lying about it. His cell stank like pruno.

"Don't pretend not to know. Donut mentioned it when he was in the infirmary."

"Fucking blabbermouth. Look, I didn't give Caboose any alcohol. That fucking douche stole it from me."

"Then don't leave it within his reach."

"Oh, so it's all my fault he's a fucking idiot who's stupid enough to drink that much alcohol, is it?"

"...Yes. It is.”

"Bullshit. His mum probably dropped him on his head too many times as a kid, how am I supposed to control that?"

Sheila tilted her head, watching him for a few moments. "Oh, I see. Did no-one bring up the name of who you crashed into?"

"Nah, they said that was classified shit. I figured they thought 'oooh, a murderer, maybe he'll come after the kid next...'" Grif frowned, thinking. "Why is this relevant?"

"Well, it is your fault that Caboose is as mentally unstable as he is. So, it's your responsibility to do things like not damage him further."

Grif still didn't get it. What did this have to do with…

And then he recalled what little he remembered of the accident. He remembered climbing out of the car and staring at the pick-up truck that had plowed into a tree. He hadn't seen much. Just the back of the kid's head, mostly. But... now that he really thought about it, the kid had been huge. Caboose-huge. And what little skin and hair he could see through the blood had matched in colour.

"No fucking way."

"Is that enough to convince you to treat him a little more carefully? Or are you going to continue leaving damaging substances where he can reach them?" Sheila asked coldly.

"No, I'll... I'll keep them out of his reach."

"Good."

Once Sheila was gone, Grif rolled onto his back. Shit. All he'd known about the kid he plowed into was that he was in a coma for a while and the accident might have had some side effects. But now that he thought about it some, this made some of Caboose's behavior make so much more sense. And it also explained another reason why Caboose was so insistent about Grif not drinking himself into a coma. He'd know what a coma was like.

"Dudeee."

"Gah. How long have you been there?" Grif snapped, as Tucker appeared in front of the bars of his cell, grinning.

"Long enough. Heard it."

"So, what? You gonna blackmail me about it? That's what you do, isn't it?"

"Sure I do. But you don't really have anything I want. Besides, telling Caboose about something like that? I'm not that cold. Kid would fucking murder you. I mean, from what Church said, that accident really fucked him up. Hurt his brain, pretty much wrecked what he had with his family, led to the murders he did which got him locked up in here which led to even more murders…"

“Jesus,” Grif muttered. Well, that was another person’s life he had ruined. Another few lives, if he counted the four people Caboose had murdered. But what else was new?

"So... he wouldn't react well, is what you're saying."

"Hell no. It's Caboose. He tried to kill me because I shoved Church once. He'd probably beat your face into the floor until it was a gross red smudge. Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell him about the accident thing for shits and giggles. I'm not O'Malley. I mean, maybe if you had something I really wanted, like a stack of porn magazines, then I might try blackmailing you about it, but... well. Not until then.”

Tucker wandered off. Leaving Grif deep in thought.

 

* * *

 

Wash had been patrolling the yard when the zealots came out, carrying orange juice for their usual libations and stupid rituals that were performed in honor of that stupid piece of fabric. Wash watched from a distance as the zealots came to a halt halfway across the yard, gaping at the flagless pole.

They were silent for quite a few minutes. Like their minds just couldn't process what they were seeing. In their minds, it was probably the equivalent of someone stealing or destroying the Pietà. They crowded around the flagpole, staring upwards and clinging to their cups of orange juice.

And then they started shouting.

"Holy Flag, it's gone! His Flappiness has deserted us!"

"The Flag would never do that! This is the work of the blue devils!"

"It can't be! The flagpole is too tall and would repel any of the demons with its impressive shininess!"

"Then it's clearly punishment! We've done something wrong!"

"No, we haven't! Clearly the blue devils have learned to fly and ignore bright lights!"

"That's stupid! You're stupid!"

"Maybe it's a test of faith!"

"How does that work?"

"I don't knoooow!"

Had their leader still been around, they probably would have already unified into one stream of thought and decided on a course of action. Most likely something along the lines of 'kill all Blues' or 'throw orange juice at the flagpole to try and make the flag happy again.' However, with the Red Zealot dead, there seemed to be no leader among the flag-worshiping cult. And so they were now collapsing due to squabbling among themselves.

"Look! A gatekeeper! He might have some answers!" one of them yelled, pointing at Wash.

Well, shit. Wash briefly considered running, but Doc had started scheduling therapy for the guards and he wanted to make sure he had the energy to run and hide in a pile of laundry if Doc tried to drag him into it.

The zealots crowded around him. "Gatekeeper! Our holy flag, the most flappy of fabrics, is missing!"

"Yeah, I can see that. So?"

"So? So?! Someone has kidnapped His Holy Flappiness!"

"Yeah. Someone.”

"Do you know who it was? As gatekeepers, you would have seen them pass through the gates! Who kidnapped our flappy lord?!"

"Well, if I had to guess... I would assume your 'flappy lord' left because you're all screw-ups."

"What?"

Wash was about to explain that flags don't require people to murder for them, but one of the other zealots spoke up first.

"Guys! Guys! I think... I think I have the answer."

"Shut up, no-one cares what you think. Your ideas are always stupid. And the blue demons can't fly! If they could, they'd fly over the gates and the gatekeepers would be meaningless!"

"Hear me out. What if the flag is angry because we didn't finish something?"

"We did screw up a lot of things. Like failing to defend our leader," another muttered, looking depressed.

"Yes, but don't you remember the last thing he and the prophet ordered us to do?"

"Make shivs?"

"Find more orange juice?"

"No! During the riot! We were told to kill the cloth-washer!"

"Oh! Right!"

This was probably going in a bad direction. And the last thing Wash needed was for York to get pissy at him again because he accidentally caused more death. He was about to explain that he meant they'd screwed up by killing in the first place. Then he realized who they were referring to. Donut was the only inmate who washed clothes outside of the normal work hours.

Wash held off correcting them.

"But it's the cloth-washer. That's a sacred profession."

"But he is a cloth-washer who spends most of his time with the anti-flag. The anti-flag who stopped us from carrying out our duty against the cloth-washer in the first place."

"My nose still hurts from that…"

"Clearly, the cloth-washer is a traitor and the flag is trying to show us that!"

"Then we must decide on a plan to bring back the Flag's trust!"

Wash watched them run off, frowning a little. He should probably keep a close eye on them. He didn't want them to murder Donut. Just... maim him a little. At least until Wash could figure out how he kept surviving things that should have killed him.

 

* * *

 

Performing therapy on the guards wasn't difficult. On average, they were a lot saner than many of the inmates. Doc supposed this made sense. It was probably harder to get a job as a prison guard when you were obviously insane. On the other hand, that didn't explain Sarge or Wash. And Doc was living proof that the standards for working here weren't too high.

The therapy wasn't entirely uneventful, though. Like when he'd accidentally invited both Dakotas up at once and it had somehow devolved into North telling stories about South when she was a little kid.

"...and then she'd cry and cry and we'd have to get in the car, and Dad would drive us around the block until she went to sleep."

"North, shut up."

"Why? It's not anything embarrassing. If I'd told the stories about your emo phase in high school, then that would be embarrassing—"

"If you keep doing this, I'm going to show the whole prison pictures of you as a child wearing Mum's underwear on your head."

"Low blow, sis. Low blow."

Doc had barely been able to get a word in, and had quickly stopped trying. Instead, he had observed, nodded a lot and drawn some pictures of two kittens trying to grab the same ball of wool.

Then there was Flowers, who rather than being psychoanalyzed took the opportunity to talk to Doc about bonding more with the inmates.

"Male bonding is both fun and a very good way to build a sense of community and trust. As a therapist, you have to know how to encourage it."

"Um. Well, there's a lot of stuff in 'Therapy For Dummies' about building trust and stuff with the patient."

"No, no, no. Books cannot teach something like that. You have to be warm. And open. And not nervously twitching like a deer having a seizure. No offence."

"None taken."

"And it sounds like you need help. I saw a glimpse of your notepad. It doesn't seem to have any therapy-related notes in it. Although those are very nice drawings. I particularly like the one of the crocodile in a tuxedo."

"Thanks."

"Now, I find that occasionally surprising people with hugs is a good way to bond with them. Well, some of the time. About half the time. The other half of the time, they get angry and sometimes violent. But the important thing is that you tried."

"...Okay."

Doc hadn't been able to glimpse much about Flowers' mental state at all. The man was just so happy and cheerful. It was almost a little creepy at times. In any case, all he'd ended up with was a page of doodles of daisies wearing nice hats.

Later on, Sarge returned to rant angrily some more.

"And another thing, why am I the one getting all the flak for the riot when Flowers is the one in charge of security? Damn that girly-haired stepford smiler. And he's behaving like a bossy old nag. Pestering me to tuck in my shirt and stop getting drunk on the job…"

"Sarge, I kind of have other people to see."

"Too bad. I'm not finished."

Doc didn't even try to take down notes that time.

Then there was Tex. She was uncooperative. She just sat there, with her arms crossed and an expression of what was best described as amused contempt.

"Um. Soooo... any problems you want to talk about?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Positive? Because looking at your records, it seems like you had some issues in the past. Mostly with getting in relationships with criminals."

"That only happened a few times."

"Six times is rather a lot, though. Especially for a former policewoman."

"Oh, please. First off, most of them were only small-time thieves or drug dealers. Except for Church, but he was a cockbite. And secondly, if you compare that to the ratio of criminals to non-criminals in my past, it's nothing. I've been around. And if you start lecturing me on it I will punch you."

"That's unnecessarily threatening…"

This time, Doc had two pages of dinosaurs drawn when the session was done.

Of course, his anxiety about interviewing the other guards was nothing when it came to how terrified he was at the idea of interviewing Wash. Maybe because Wash was someone who, if not mad now, had genuinely been mad at some point, if the rumours of him being locked in a mental institution were true. And it wasn't hard to believe. And so Doc was a little afraid. Well, very afraid.

It turned out to be irrelevant, because Wash never showed up at all.

Doc wasted about fifteen minutes of the time he'd designated for Wash drawing more kittens. Every once and a while, he would take the can of pepper spray out of his pocket and start fiddling around with it. He'd had no reason to use it since O'Malley's last visit, but he always kept it on hand just so he didn't lose it.

Twenty minutes in, York turned up.

"If you're waiting for Wash, he probably won't turn up. I have tried to talk him into seeing a therapist before. Never worked."

"Oh. Okay.”

"I could probably help you find him."

"No, I... I guess I don't want to force him into it."

"Reasonable enough. So, since I'm here, do you want to do my therapy session now?"

"Uh. Okay. Any problems you want to talk about?"

"Erm. No, not really. I assumed you had one of those psych tests where you ask the person specific things. You know, what's your favourite colour, have any weird dreams, take any recreational drugs, do you have a history of trying to strangle people you love, that sort of thing. For the record, the answer is that tan kind of brown, occasional reoccurring dreams about being chased by a giant vacuum cleaner, I ate special brownies once or twice and I think I would remember something like that."

"Hm. Having a test like that would have made these interviews so much easier. Aw, this means I'll have to do them over."

When York left, Doc had spare time on his hands since York had shown up early. And he couldn't stop thinking about Wash and his weird aversion to therapists. Come to think of it, he'd never actually checked Wash's records. He thought it would be intrusive on Wash's privacy. But then again, how would he know how to help Wash if he didn't know what was wrong with him?

So he located the set of records that he'd been given on each guard, in preparation for interviewing them. He hadn't really looked through them at all. It made him slightly uncomfortable to read things that people probably wouldn't like him knowing.

As he located Wash's file, which included medical and mental records, he started reading and his discomfort increased. The more he read, the colder he felt. When he got to the dental records, he felt a mix of nausea and perverse fascination. Something that persisted throughout the description of how he'd looked when first found after being missing for a few months.

He kept reading. The more he read, the more that Wash's behavior started to make sense. The entire time, he had his notepad beside him. After he'd read through the entire thing, he tapped the notepad with his pencil, trying to think of something to write or draw.

He didn't draw anything. And he only wrote eight words.

_I have no idea how to help him._

 

* * *

 

"No."

"Aw, come on."

Church rubbed his forehead before glaring at Tucker. "Why the hell do you want me to try and find porn magazines? You can't see, dumbass!"

"Yeah, but... well, I can imagine."

"Imagine without the magazines! How will pictures you can't see help?"

"I can get someone to tell me what they're of."

"Okay, first: ew. And second: gross."

Tucker laughed before stretching his arms above his head and flopping down onto the floor. "Hey, at least I'm trying. I'm gonna keep my hobbies going, dammit."

"Blergh. Can't you find a less disgusting hobby?"

"Oh, like you never looked at porn before. Everyone likes porn."

"Yeah, but the extent that you like it is downright disturbing."

"Also, when you try to get Tex or Doc or whatever to get stuff for you, can you try to find something I can tie around my eyes? So that I can look badass instead of all scarfacey when they take the bandages off?"

"You realise you'll just look stupid, right?"

"Please?"

"Why can't you just find some sunglasses or something, like regular blind people do?"

"Dude, my eyes and the area around them are pretty damn scarred. I know, I felt the shiv. Sunglasses ain't gonna cover that bitch. Besides, aren't sunglasses more expensive?"

"Point taken."

"Come on. Just a bandana and some porn."

"You can have the first one. But I'm not finding porn for you."

"Even if I offered a handjob in exchange?"

Church fumbled with the notepad he'd been writing potential goods on and dropped it. "Jesus! That's a bit fucking forward!"

"Well... you know. Eventual handjob. Like, once I get over this whole 'wieners-are-gross' thing."

"So, potentially never?"

"Well, yeah.”

"Eh. You're still not getting porn. Seriously, Tucker, whoring yourself out for porn is a new low."

"I'm not whoring myself out! Your face is!"

"That makes no sense."

"Your face always makes sense. Anyway... can you try to get the bandana thing before the next time Junior visits? I don't want to freak him out by turning up looking like Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein’s monster. Frankenstein was the scientist,” Church corrected him.

“Loserrr,” Tucker laughed.

“I read a fucking book once, big deal. Anyway, no-one could mistake you for Frankenstein's monster. Frankenstein’s monster was actually intelligent."

"Fuck off."

"You fuck off, you're in my cell."

"But I'd have to get up.”

 

* * *

 

Grif was pacing. For the first time since Simmons' death, he was actually feeling a huge surge of energy. It felt like there were little electric shocks going through his skin, he felt so damn jumpy. But he had to wait.

He had to wait until Donut wasn't around. Because if Donut was around when he approached Caboose, then this wasn't going to work.

Why did Donut have to be sleeping in? Today of all days? It wouldn't have been a problem if Caboose wasn't sitting in Donut's cell, waiting patiently for him to wake up.

Grif kept walking back and forth. He was holding one of the post-its that he had found in Simmons' locker. The one that had been stuck to the bag of Oreos. Every once and a while, Grif would look down and read it.

_Okay, obviously you ignored the first message. Quit going through my things! And don't eat these, they're for later!_

Grif idly wondered if there were Oreos in the afterlife.

"Oh god, what time is it?" he heard Donut groan.

"Beignet! You missed breakfast! I did not wake you up because you looked very tired."

"Breakfast is over?! Oh god, I’ve got to get to the showers before they get uncrowded."

Grif quickly flopped down onto his bed so that Donut would think he was asleep and not ask questions like 'are you okay' or 'do you need anything.' After a couple of minutes of listening to footsteps shuffling around, he heard Donut quickly approach his cell.

"Grif? You awake?"

Grif ignored him, still pretending to be sound asleep. He heard a sigh before Donut's footsteps moved away.

"I'll be back in... half an hour? Maybe more?"

"Okay, Macaron. Wait! But I have to hug you to make you less tired and more happy!"

"Oh, right...”

Grif inwardly gagged and felt a sick sensation of bitterness crawling around in his stomach. He heard running footsteps as Donut hurried off. Grif immediately got to his feet and approached Caboose, who was just standing outside of Donut's cell, humming a little tune.

"Hey, uh.. Caboose."

"Mr. Gruf? You are leaving your cell? Are you all better now?! I hope you are, because then Mochi will be happier as well."

"Uh, sure. Whatever. I'll feel better soon. Listen, there's something super special and important and all that crap that I need to talk to you about."

"Is it a secret? I am good at keeping secrets. I am a good pretender. And I like secrets. They make me feel important."

"Sure. A secret. A big one. But that means we can't be anywhere near a guard or another inmate. Okay?"

"Okay! There are places. Like... like the place where we used to play sports! That was fun. And people do not go there much. Sometimes I go there when I do not want people yelling at me." Caboose took off, babbling at a hundred miles per hour. Grif followed, though he refused to run. So Caboose ended up very far ahead of him.

The entire way, Grif kept an eye out for anyone who might have a reason to follow them. But the only person that would even be interested was Donut, and Grif didn't see him.

They reached the patch of dirt that had been their designated sports stuff area. Well, for Grif it had always been a 'laze around while Simmons bitched at him and Sarge yelled at him to stop being a dirtbag' area. But same difference.

"Secret time! Secret time! What is the secret? Is it about leprechaun gold? Or cake? Or leprechaun cake?!"

Grif's stomach was starting to squirm again. Caboose looked so childishly happy and Grif was about to smash that into pieces. Urgh, this would be so much simpler if he knew how to tie good knots.

"Caboose…"

"Yes, Mr. Gruf?"

"I was the one who caused you to crash."

"...What?"

Grif sighed, running his fingers nervously through his hair. Felt greasy. "Nine years ago, you crashed into a tree and hurt your head really badly. You remember that, don't you?"

"How did you... did Melon Bread tell you?" Caboose looked incredibly confused.

"No, Caboose. I know because I was the one driving the other car. I wasn't paying attention to the lights. I caused you to crash into a tree. It's my fault that you're fucked up in the head."

"No. Cannot be you."

"Oh, why the fuck not?!”

"Because... you are a nice man. You do not yell at me much and only mock me a little bit. You would not do something mean like that."

"Yeah, well... I did. I fucked you up."

Caboose blinked a few times. What Grif was saying seemed to be slowly catching up in his head. His expression was going from confused to hurt. "You made me... you made me stupid?"

"Yeah."

"...Why?"

"I don't know, dammit! Because I thought it'd be a fucking bright idea to try and drive to Spain without enough fuel to even reach the next state! Because I'm a fuck-up who wasn't paying attention! Because you were in the goddamn way, alright? Who the hell cares why I—"

Grif didn't have time to finish the sentence. Because Caboose punched him square in the face and sent him flying. Grif hit the dirt hard and felt blood start streaming from his nose. He didn't even try to get up. He didn't have to, because Caboose grabbed him and pulled him up by his collar, fist pulled back. He didn't look angry. He just looked really, really upset.

Grif waited for the next punch. But it never came. Caboose stared at him for a few moments.

"You hurt me," Caboose said quietly.

"I know."

"You made me stupid. Being stupid made my family be scared of me. Made Apples die. Made me think there were boogeymen when it was really a nice blonde stripper lady. You made me turn bad."

"I fucking know, alright? Now hurry up and finish what you started!"

Caboose stared just one moment longer. He still had his fist raised, but he slowly lowered it. It looked like he was struggling to do so. And then he let go of Grif. For the second time, Grif hit the dirt. This time, he sat up. He still didn't bother to try and stop his nose from dripping blood.

"The hell?"

Caboose didn't say anything, he just turned around and started to leave. Grif climbed to his feet, eyes wide.

"Hey! Heeeey! You're supposed to keep punching!" Caboose ignored him, until Grif went after him and shoved him hard in the back. "Finish it, asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you? What happened to the Caboose who would crush someone's face into a pulp for the stupidest of reasons? Why can't you do that again? Hurry up and fucking kill me already, before I fuck up someone else!"

When he got no response, Grif tried to shove Caboose again. But Caboose turned and grabbed his arm. It hurt a little, but not enough.

"I cannot do that. Donut would be mad," Caboose whispered.

"Fuck Donut! He's not here, he doesn't even have to find out about it!"

"He will also be sad. And I do not want Donut to be either of those things." Caboose let go of Grif's arm and kept walking away. "And, Mr. Gruf... I am in a mean mood.” Caboose turned to stare at him. The look in his eyes was cold. “You do not deserve to be with Simmons again.”

Once Caboose was gone, Grif's body went on autopilot and started wandering back towards the prison. He automatically tried to shield his bloody face from the guards, so they wouldn't start asking questions.

The entire way back, Grif felt a simultaneous urge to punch something and cry like a baby. He managed to keep both urges bubbling underneath the surface.

His only coherent thought was that this was Donut's fault. Motherly fucker.

 

* * *

 

"You notice anything... weird?" York muttered, as he and Wash patrolled the corridor.

"Weird how?"

"Well, people don't come this way much. Not unless they want to use the phones. But... seems like there's a lot of people around today."

Wash looked around. Studying the inmates that were lingering around in the corridor. At first glance, they looked casual. Like they'd just chosen this particular corridor to hang out in. But when Wash strained his ears, however, he could hear the clearly uninspired and meaningless conversation.

"So... that weather, huh? Cloudy."

"Yeah. Cloudy. You know... like, uh. Like storms. Storms have clouds."

"They totally have clouds."

They weren't here to talk. They were here for some other reason. And studying their faces, Wash noticed that they were all zealots. Why were these flag-worshiping nutcases lingering around this particular corridor?

It made sense once they entered the room where the phones were kept. Donut was in there. He had the phone pressed to his ear and was talking quietly. He also looked rather tired. Wash turned back to see the zealots regularly glancing towards Donut. Donut seemingly hadn't noticed anything odd.

“Are you sure you can’t visit?” Donut said into the phone. “...No, no. It’s alright. Things are just a little rough lately, that’s all. It’d be nice to—no, it’s fine. It’s a long trip and—“

And meanwhile the zealots stood there. Staring. Waiting. Waiting for a chance to strike. They couldn't while Donut was on the phone, as guards always watched the room to make sure no-one was loudly plotting escape with the person on the other line. But once Donut left, he'd have to travel all the way back to the cells. And that would give them the window they needed, provided they were quick about it.

York glanced from Donut, to the zealots, to Wash's face. His expression darkened a little. "Did you do something?"

"What? What kind of something?"

"I don't know. Did you do anything that might make those guys start following Donut around? I mean, after the O'Malley thing—"

"I had nothing to do with whatever they're doing." It was technically true. Wash hadn't done anything. He'd simply neglected to stop a potentially harmful situation. "Why? If you're worried, I can keep an eye on things."

"Yeah, because that turned out so well the last time. I'm not that stupid. I'll keep an eye on him myself," York said. "Make sure you haven't been screwing around with Donut again. I'll just watch him until he's with Caboose, then they probably won't bother trying anything."

York had a point. Even if that point greatly annoyed Wash.

"Alright.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Donut finished his conversation with Mama Liz and hung up, he heard York call out.

"Hey, Donut."

“What do you want?”

“Nothing in particular. There is definitely nothing suspicious going on. I just figured… erm… let’s go somewhere!” York said cheerfully. “For a walk! Because, uh. We are friendly. Sort of. I mean, you're okay."

“Uh...?”

"But we should go now. Right now. Away from the crowds. Where are you going?"

“The cells? I mean, I could shake it up some and stand outside on some concrete or the one scrap of dirt we have. If I was feeling adventurous.”

“You’re so sassy lately. Alright, cells. Let’s go.” York headed off towards the cells. Donut, after a moment’s pause, followed him.

“I wouldn’t call it sassy. Sass is fun,” Donut said lightly. “I’d call it rage over ninety percent of how this prison runs. You’re about eighteen percent of that.”

“Just eighteen?” York asked.

“It fluctuates.” Donut had to speed up a little to keep up with York. He’d associate that speed with people who want to get away from him, but that made no sense here. York approached him. Donut would gladly let him fuck off, and the only reason he followed was because he was feeling a little wary about disobeying guards right now. Especially anyone associated with Wash.

“So, uhhh… how’s things going?”

“Peachy,” Donut said flatly. “I’m so happy I could explode.”

“You picked up some pretty harsh bruises,” York said. “Uh… that wasn’t in the riot, was it? So… how’d that happen?”

Donut instinctively reached up to touch the bandaging on his nose. Sheila said it’d take some time to heal and might look a little crooked once it did. Just another thing that made him look lopsided.

“You know how it happened. You know how it always happens.” Donut lowered his hand and glared at York. “You’re going back to twenty-two percent of my rage.”

“Aw, not the twenties.” York cast a glance behind them. "Damn, they really are following you," he whispered.

"What?"

"The zealots."

Donut looked behind him to see six zealots plodding along behind them, trying their best to look casual. York came to a halt. It was so sudden that Donut walked right into him.

"Oof."

"Sorry." York turned to face the zealots. "Hello. Any particular reason for lingering around here? If not, you should probably go to the yard. The corridors are no place for chilling."

None of the zealots moved. They just glanced at each other and attempted to communicate to each other with strange eyebrow raises. Ones that gave a general feel of 'what do we do now?'

Eventually, one spoke. "We are trying to have a friendly discussion with the clothwasher. This is no business of yours, gatekeeper."

"Oh? Donut, do you want to talk to them?"

"No," Donut said instantly.

"Clearly he's not in the mood. Go on, go to the yard or something. Do some laps or push-ups, or throw orange juice at the flag. Well, flagpole."

"But there is no flag for us to offer orange juice to, and that is because we haven't done our duty." One of the other zealots narrowed his eyes. "Are you preventing us from doing our duty, gatekeeper?"

"Does it involve disembowelment? If it does, then definitely. I’m not huge on that," York said.

"Then we have no choice." The zealot nodded and he and the others all removed shivs from their jackets.

"Whoa. Easy," York said, raising his hands. Donut let out a small squeak and tried to will himself to run, but it didn't feel right to run off and leave York to face six crazy zealots. No matter how much of an abuse-enabling asshole York was.

"Death to the clothwasher. And the meddlesome gatekeeper," one said.

"Doesn't the flag say we can't harm gatekeepers because they're the only ones that can let us out of purgatory?" another one whispered.

"But he's in the way of us doing our duty! And we won't get to leave if he's in the way."

York sighed and removed his nightstick from his belt.

"I hate using this thing," he muttered. "Give me the shivs."

"We refuse. They are sacred weapons."

"Well, shit. Please? I'd hate to use this. Or use my pepper spray. That stuff burns. Come on, we don't have to get vi—"

He might have continued, but one jumped forward. York sidestepped him and smashed him in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air. Another smack and he dropped his shiv.

"Get the gatekeeper!"

Donut managed to slip out of the way as they attacked York, clearly thinking he was the bigger threat. York smashed another two of them, one in the gut and one he got across the face. Possibly on accident, because York let out a quiet swear when he saw the smashed nose.

"Owww! Why do people keep hitting me in the nose?" the zealot whined, edging away. There were still three moving around. Still, Donut was momentarily convinced that York could handle them. He seemed to be doing fine.

And then his luck ran out.

When York swung at the fourth zealot, the one who had declared they had no choice, the zealot half-tripped out of the way and rolled along the ground. And it put him in a good position to impale York's left thigh with his shiv.

There was a hoarse scream. York toppled to the ground because he was unable to support his weight on the stabbed leg. The zealot who'd attacked him yanked it free and grinned triumphantly.

"Red blood! For the flag!"

York didn't stand a chance on his own.

Donut saw the blood. He saw a lot of things that he wanted to forget in that splash of red, things he hadn’t been able to stop. Things he couldn’t change. But this. This could be changed.

Donut lunged forward, hand going for York’s belt and grabbing the little canister stuck there before shoving York behind him. No technique or reason in his mind. Donut just spurted the pepper spray wildly in the air. He didn’t get all of them, but he caught the one who’d stabbed York in the spray.

The attacker dropped his blood-coated shiv to claw at his eyes. "My eyes! They burn like blue hell!" he screamed.

Donut snatched the shiv off the ground. Normally the feel of the blood decorating the handle would have made him stop, made him wince, but the adrenaline was pumping and all Donut could think was ‘stop them.’

He grabbed the zealot's hair, yanked his head back to expose the throat and pressed the shiv to it, turning around to use the zealot as a human shield between him and York and the other zealots.

“I am so sick of your fucking cult!” Donut yelled. “You hear me? I am sick of it! I’m sick of you! Walter, Sheila, Simmons, why won’t you stop?! Well, it ends here!”

One of the zealots who hadn’t been blinded by the spray moved forward. Donut took a step back and pressed the shiv closer to the zealot’s throat. A small trickle of blood slid down the zealot’s neck, tinging his shirt collar red.

“Don’t even think about it,” Donut said, voice quieter now. His eyes were starting to water from the remnants of the pepper spray in the air. “Why’d you attack me?”

“The flag was gone,” one of the zealots said. “It left us. We want it to return, and both the prophet and our leader… they said you had to die, so… we thought because we failed to do that—”

“So it was a stupid reason,” Donut interrupted. “I don’t know what I expected.”

“God, I fucking told Wash...” York hissed under his breath, clutching his leg.

“Well, you know what? Your leader fucked up. Your prophet fucked up,” Donut said. “And fuck your sacrifices. You have a choice. You back off. You stop with the sacrifices and return to throwing orange juice.” Donut yanked the hair of the zealot he gripped, baring his throat further. “Or I cut his throat out. And I never wash another scrap of clothing again unless it’s soaked in blue dye.”

One of the zealots let out a little scandalized gasp.

“Yeah, I went there! I’ll cut his face off and replace it with an ugly blanket made of clashing colours on the cold colour spectrum! So back off!” Donut screamed.

Whether they saw reason or decided that this just wasn’t worth dealing with, Donut didn’t know. But they only hesitated for a moment before running for it. Once the others had gone, Donut let go of the zealot he held before raising a foot and giving him a light kick forward. The zealot stumbled forward before pausing and looking back at Donut. He hesitated before giving Donut an oddly reverent bow, then sprinted after his fellow cult members.

“...That was weird,” York said, voice strained.

Donut stood still for a few moments, breathing hard and trying to get enough of the anger out of his system to at least function properly. Then he dropped the shiv he'd been threatening them with and knelt in front of York.

“How bad is it? ...Jesus.”

York’s pant leg had already soaked through with red. Despite this, and the tears streaming down his face, he attempted a weak grin.

“It’s not that bad. They got me in that damn left side.”

“You’re such a bad liar. Come on.” Donut slung one of York’s arms over his shoulders and helped York stand on his undamaged leg. “Infirmary’s not far. Sheila’ll look after you.” He tried to walk York forward, but turned out that York was heavy. Too heavy to manage easily. It was only a couple of moments before Donut had to rest him against the wall again.

"Don't think you're... you're strong enough to cart me there. Just—aghh—just find one of the guards and tell them where I am. I'll try to—nghh—stay awake."

"Alright. I’ll only be a minute." Donut took off at a run, looking for someone—anyone—who could help.

Of course, the first person he ran into was Wash. Wash's eyes immediately narrowed suspiciously upon seeing Donut's hands covered in blood.

"Why are—“

“York got stabbed. The zealots attacked him and—“

Donut didn't have to finish, because as soon as he said York was hurt, Wash's face went more chalk white than York's had been and he immediately ran in the direction Donut was gesturing in. Donut sighed and set off at a run for the infirmary. At least Wash was being useful for once.

 

* * *

 

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Wash's feet thumped against the ground as he ran, wishing like all hell that Donut was just making things up. But he soon found York, along with irrefutable proof that Donut had been telling the truth.

"York?!"

York was clinging to his leg. His eyes looked glazed, like he was fighting to stay conscious.

"Wash?"

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, I shouldn't have left... okay, just... just stay awake, I'll get you to the infirmary, just... just hold on!" Wash slung one of York's arms around his shoulders and tried to get York on his feet. When it became obvious this wasn't going to work, he pulled York onto his back and started carrying him to the infirmary. "Just a couple more minutes, then Sheila can... can try to fix you up. Just hold on!"

York groaned in response. As Wash hurried for the infirmary, he muttered, "Wash?"

"Yeah?"

"Taking down the flag was the worst idea you ever had."

York's face was so halting and pained that Wash couldn't tell whether it was a truly angry rebuttal or just an observation. But a strong wave of guilt swept through his stomach and mingled with the panic and fear that was swirling around in there. York was right. It was stupid. And so was letting the zealots plot murder and not bothering to try and intervene. As was letting York follow Donut around when he knew perfectly well that the zealots were planning on attacking Donut, but he didn't think they'd attack York, as well…

It was just like the time O'Malley had attacked York and jammed a cigarette in his eye. Last time, it had been his fault because he'd let York get too close to the psycho. Hadn't warned him of what O'Malley was like.

And now it was happening again. Once again, it was all Wash's fault.


	30. Chapter Twenty-Two: Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut finds out what Grif's trying to do. Grif gives Sister a call. The news comes back on York, and Wash gets pushed into a therapy session with Doc. Sarge and Flowers have a talk about Sarge's pending 'retirement' and O'Malley gets free from the shoe and approaches Doc once more.

"I'm sorry, but I would prefer it if you both stayed outside,” Sheila said. She blocked the doorway into the infirmary, stopping Wash from following her in.

"I'll stay out of the way, I just want to make sure he's—" Wash started, but Sheila quickly interrupted him.

"York isn't going to die because you weren't there."

Donut, who’d been pushed out of the infirmary the moment York was brought in, was already leaving as Wash continued to argue.

“But—“

"You do realise that you're causing me to waste time trying to get you to leave when I could be helping your friend?"

The arguing behind Donut only ceased then. A door clicked shut. Donut glanced uneasily over his shoulder to make sure Wash wasn’t following him. Thinking that perhaps Wash might take out his frustration over York’s injury on him. But Wash hadn’t moved from outside the infirmary, only leaned against the wall to wait.

Donut kept walking back towards the cells. The adrenaline from the attack had faded from his system, leaving him tired and nauseous every time the image of York’s bloody leg swam to the forefront of his mind. He thought he’d be used to it by now.

He half-expected to get attacked again on his way back, with no guard protection. He thought, at one point, he saw a flash of one of the zealot’s red bandanas out of the corner of his eye. But no attacks came. He supposed it hadn’t been a guard they ran from.

Before Donut entered the row he stopped. He checked himself. He wiped away any evidence of tears that he partially blamed on the pepper spray, and removed his jacket—now stained with York’s blood—and bundled it underneath his arm. He tried smiling. When it didn’t work, he tried to settle on neutral.

Donut normally was a big believer in expressing feelings in a healthy, positive way. And there were so many feelings that he didn’t want to contain. But right now, he was doing his best to lock all that down. To cram a lid over the bubbling crockpot of anger, frustration, grief and stress.

If he fell apart and couldn’t take care of Grif and Caboose, who would?

Donut reached Caboose’s cell first, and was greeted with the sight of Caboose sitting on his cot, squinting at the floor. He was rubbing his head. His fingers tracing the areas where his old scars were hidden by hair.

There was a part of Donut who didn’t want to deal with this right now. Who just wanted to retreat to his cell and hide under flimsy sheets until everything left him alone. It seemed to work well enough for Grif. But there was enough of a conscience in him to give himself an internal smack over the head for thinking such thoughts.

So instead, Donut approached Caboose and sat down next to him.

“Something up?”

Caboose didn’t answer immediately. He stared straight ahead, then looked down. “It is… not a thing that will hurt you.”

“That’s not why I’m asking, Caboose. Come on. What’s up?”

“It… it is Grif. I am mad at him.”

“Did he yell at you? Because I know it hurts, but he’s… he’s very emotional right now, and—“

“He did not yell at me. Not until the end. He was… he said he was sharing secrets, and I thought maybe he wanted to share friendly secrets. But they were not friendly secrets.” Caboose stared at the ground for a moment longer, then looked at at Donut. “I… I kind of wish I did not know, even though I love secrets.”

Donut curled his legs up to his chest, watching Caboose. He didn’t say anything. Just waited patiently for Caboose to continue.

“He said… he told me that he… he hurt me.” Caboose touched the old scars. “He… he made me dumb. Apples, Missus Sparkles, Mama… they are all his fault. Papa hating me… my sisters never coming to see me… his fault. He...” Caboose took a deep, shuddering breath. “He… he ruined everything.”

“Oh,” Donut said faintly.

“Oh,” Caboose echoed, his voice harsher.

“...I’m sorry, Caboose.”

“It is not your fault. You did not crash your car into me.”

“I know. But I’m still sorry.” Donut put a hand on Caboose’s shoulder. Caboose put his own hand over it. They remained like that for a moment before Donut continued. “I… I know what happened hurt you. But… you know I have to stick with Grif, right? With Simmons gone...”

“I know. That is okay. Grif hurt me. He did not hurt you.” Caboose let go of Donut’s hand and patted him on the head. “Grif is your friend. That is why I did not kill him. Also because that is what he wanted, and I will not do the nice thing.”

“I’m glad you… what?”

 

* * *

 

Grif wasn’t in his cell. He was in Donut’s, staring down at the shiv now in his hands.

He wasn’t great at knots, and hanging was difficult to do right in here. He wasn’t sure how Joannes had managed it. He’d heard that Church had tried and fucked it up once, though he wasn’t going to ask for the details or the why of it. And he didn’t have a shiv of his own, but he’d known Donut had. He’d overheard Tucker bitching about needing a new one. Donut also wasn’t great at hiding things.

Now Grif had the shiv, and all he had to do was… fuck, stab himself in the throat? That’d be the quickest way. No-one can survive a stab to the throat. He’d seen it in the movies. That shit was instant death.

Stab. Dead. No more problems.

So why the fuck hadn’t he done it the moment he got the shiv into his hands?

Grif sat down on Donut’s cot, turning the shiv over in his hands. Occasionally, he’d make a stabbing motion towards his throat. But he’d always stop himself before the knife got too close. Jesus. Maybe this was why people always went for the wrists.

Grif let one hand go of the shiv to look down at his own pudgy wrist. After some consideration, he held the shiv near it. Gritting his teeth, he tried to press down.

He only got a thin line of red before he yanked it away again.

“Fuck, ow. Ow, ow, how do… jesus christ,” he muttered, examining what was little more than a graze. He’d gotten worse cutting himself shaving.

Why did death have to be so hard? It wasn’t hard for Simmons. And Simmons was always the one giving Grif shit about how he was going to kill himself via clogged arteries if he kept going how he was going, so why couldn’t his fucking arteries hurry up so he didn’t have to do this?

Grif glared at the line of red on his wrist. As he did, he heard sudden loud footsteps heading right for him.

He looked up in time to see Donut slap the shiv out of his hands.

“What the fuck, Grif?!” Donut’s voice reached such a shrill pitch that Grif was surprised he could hear it at all.

“Jesus, not so loud,” Grif muttered, reaching up to clear one of his ears.

“What are you doing? Look, okay, barring the fact that you’ve clearly been going through my things—“

“You weren’t using—“

“Shut up, Grif! Just… what are you doing?!”

Grif stared up at Donut, who was standing over him with a crazed expression and looking a lot bigger than normal. Grif then looked back down at his slowly oozing wrist. Then at the shiv still lying on the floor, slightly stained.

“I… was, uh—“ Grif lunged mid-sentence off the bed, reaching for the shiv. He barely made it two feet before Donut tackled him. The two of them crashed to the floor.

“No, you’re not touching it! Stop it!” Donut yelled, arms wrapped around Grif’s neck as they rolled around.

“Fuck you, I can do what I want! Get off me!”

“Caboose!” Donut yelled.

From Grif’s view, which was partially obscured by Donut’s arm, it seemed like Caboose teleported into the room. Caboose appeared and picked up the shiv from the ground, peering down at the mass of limbs that was Grif and Donut.

“Son of a bitch—give it!” Grif yelled, trying to wriggle out of Donut’s grip.

“Shut up, Grif, we’re gonna talk!” Donut bellowed. “I got it from here, Caboose, just… put that thing somewhere.”

Caboose nodded and headed out of the cell, shooting a rather cold glance at Grif. With the shiv now too far out of reach, Grif immediately stopped struggling.

“Y’can get off me now,” he muttered.

“Hold on! Be quiet a moment!”

Grif glanced over his shoulder to see that at some point in the struggle, Donut had gotten blood smeared on the side of his face. Must have been Grif’s blood. Donut had found the source, and was now wrapping a jacket around Grif’s wrist in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Eugh, Donut. You’re gonna make a mess of your jacket that way.”

“It’s covered in York’s blood anyway,” Donut said.

“It’s what now?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Donut pressed the cloth down, stopping the sluggish blood flow. The anger had faded from Donut’s face, to be replaced by a pensive, tired expression.

Time passed. Donut tried to stifle the bleeding. Grif lay there, staring at the wall for the most part. Eventually, Donut climbed off him and pulled Grif into a sitting position. They sat on the floor, backs against the cot while Donut continued to focus on the bleeding.

“Maybe tackling was a little extreme,” Donut said quietly. “And I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“Whatever. It’s fine.”

“No. No, it isn’t.” Donut looked down at his jacket, staining through slightly from his care. “Grif… is this...” Donut looked up to try and meet Grif’s eyes. “Did you really mean to kill yourself?”

Grif kept his eyes away from Donut.

“...Is it because of Simmons?”

Grif’s eyes flickered to Donut, then looked away again.

“Kind of,” he said. "Maybe. Fuck, I don't know."

Donut didn’t say anything in response to this. He just continued to press down on the cloth, and kept his eyes on Grif’s face. Waiting. Looking like he needed a week-long nap. But waiting anyway.

And in Grif’s opinion, putting off a nap to deal with someone’s shitty feelings was the ultimate sacrifice.

“Look, I just...”

Grif had to stop and collect himself for a couple of minutes. Honestly, putting the feeling into words was harder than he thought it would be.

“It’s… it’s just everything,” Grif said quietly. “I mean… I miss Simmons. God, I fucking miss Simmons. And that is a huge part of it. I just… I keep feeling this giant hole where he should be, and I think about all the time I’ve got left in this dump. And I don’t want to face it. Not without him. But… but it isn’t just that.

“The rest of it… is that everything I do goes wrong. I get mad. And people die.” Grif looked at his other hand, stained a little with red from his wrist. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret that Sam asshole. And to be honest, I’m pretty sure it was Simmons hitting him with the bat that put him under. But I was the one who went after him. I was the one who dropped my wallet. Then we find out… we find out what O’Malley did to you, and again. I’m the one that pushes it. Simmons comes along to deal with my shit. And now he’s dead.”

Grif looked at Donut.

“I… I don’t know… There’s a lot of crossover of reasons, and... I just don’t know. I can’t do this.” Grif looked back at the bloodstains. “I just think maybe it’d be better for everyone… including me… if I just fucked off. And maybe… you know, maybe Simmons would be wherever I fuck off to. Maybe he wouldn’t. But it’d be better than here. And I don’t see any other way of making shit better.”

They sat in silence for what could have been five minutes or half an hour, during which Grif’s fingers itched for the shiv that Caboose had taken away. Donut said nothing, mulling over Grif’s words with that exhausted expression. He occasionally peeled back the jacket to check if the bleeding had stopped.

“I don’t know what to say,” Donut finally said.

“Because I’m right?”

“No. I don’t think you are. I just don’t know what to tell you. I mean… I get it. Not all of it, I know there’s… there’s stuff I can’t understand. But… this place isn’t easy.” Donut tilted his head up, staring at the grey bricks overhead. His face clouded over. “It takes and takes, and what it gives back isn’t often pleasant.”

“Tell me about it,” Grif muttered.

“And having to face that alone… I’ve never had to face that concept for more than a few hours. In fact… the reason I never had to was because of you and Simmons. Even when I got into problems with Church and Tucker, even those times when me and Caboose had our fights… you two were always there. Right from the first day.”

“Yeah, well, we couldn’t just leave you there. You were real fuckin’ shrimpy,” Grif said, smiling slightly. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still are.”

“Aaagh, that’s not a feeling, Grif.” Donut smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I said that stuff. About you messing things up and putting corpses on the floor. It was fucked up. I’m sorry. But listen. And I’m in a real shit-talking mood, so know that this isn’t just to make you feel better.” Donut put a hand on Grif’s face, turning his chin so Grif was looking at him. “Grif… Simmons wasn’t your fault. The zealot killed him. O’Malley started the riot. It wasn’t you.”

Grif didn’t reply.

“...Did that help?” Donut asked hesitantly.

“...I don’t know. I… don’t think it made shit worse?”

“That’s something. Look, I… I don’t really know how to handle this kind of thing. I guess… all I can do is be here. And you have others. You still have Sister. I’m sure she’d say the same as me. I’m sure she’d say… just like I would… that I’d much rather have you—problems and all—than no problems and no Grif.”

Sister again. That little scratch in the back of his mind. Like there was something he was—oh shit.

Grif straightened up, looking at Donut with wide eyes. “Fuck. I didn’t tell Sister.”

“You didn’t—oh. ...Oh god, really?”

“I didn’t… I was just...” Grif pressed his face into his hands. “Fuck. I just… fuck.” He looked up again. “I need to go.” He pulled his arm away from Donut, gingerly unwrapping the jacket. Thankfully, the cut had been pretty shallow. It had stopped bleeding by now. Grif checked it, then tugged his sleeve over it so the guards wouldn’t notice and headed towards the doorway.

“Grif, wait.”

Grif stopped in the doorway, half turning to look at Donut. Donut looked at him. He straightened up, giving Grif a stern, slightly frosty look.

“Whatever does happen… I won’t give you what you need to kill yourself. And… and don’t involve Caboose in it. You can’t put that on him.” Donut’s gaze softened a little, and he shut his eyes for a moment before opening them. “Just… please. Don’t do anything you can’t take back. At least for today. I can't... just... please don't.”

Grif looked at Donut. Then he turned and left, heading for the phones, without responding. It wasn’t a commitment he felt ready to make.

 

* * *

 

Donut waited until Grif was gone before sinking down onto his cot. He heard footsteps. Caboose now stood just outside, watching Donut with a concerned expression.

Donut felt sleepy. He just wanted to roll over and ignore the world, at least for a while. If there was one good thing to say about prison, it was that Grif wasn’t going to find the items needed to kill himself easily.

"I'm... I'm going to sleep," Donut mumbled, before lying down on his cot and turning away from Caboose, shutting his eyes in an attempt to ignore everything. “Wake me up if Grif comes back, okay?”

After a few minutes of silence, he heard Caboose's footsteps shuffle closer. Then he heard the cot creak. Arms wrapped around him.

"You look too tired for hugs to help, but they cannot hurt," Caboose murmured.

Donut didn't really react to Caboose's hugging. But when Caboose moved to pull away, Donut grabbed his wrist gently.

"You can... you can stay," Donut mumbled. "If you want, I mean."

He heard Caboose hum quietly and snuggle closer. It did ease everything a little, though it wasn't enough to completely wipe away the fear, worry and anger of the day.

 

* * *

 

"Come on... come on... answer. Answer, dammit! ...God-fucking-dammit."

Grif scowled at the phone and dialled Sister's home number again. He waited several rings before, once again, it clicked over to the answering machine. Grif could have told Sister the news over an answering machine, but that seemed like a really shitty way to break it.

He tried her mobile, but it was turned off. Worry was gnawing in Grif's stomach. Sister normally picked up much quicker than this, even when she was avoiding Grif because of the pregnancy. She never turned her mobile off, she was such a damn social butterfly.

Grif phoned her apartment again. No answer. And then he phoned her mobile one more time.

Finally, she picked up.

"What?!"

"Sister?" Grif frowned. Sister didn't sound right. She sounded like she'd been crying. And there was a lot of noise in the background. "Are you okay?"

"No! Things suck! I don't wanna have this kid!"

"Don't want to... oh, right, the kid. Why, what's happening? Did you change your mind?"

"I can't be a mom! And I read that when you give birth your downstairs area goes all gross and it'll hurt! I’m going to poop in front of a room full of strangers, and that is so not my fetish! And kids are noisy and sticky! I don't know what I was thinking, I can't do this! B-but the doctor said it was too late for an abortion…"

“Alright, just... just calm down, alright? What are you—" Grif stopped as he heard some kind of radio announcement in the background. One that clearly mentioned planes. "Sister. Why are you at the airport?"

"I'm running back to Hawaii! I don't wanna have kids!"

"Okay, you realise that you can't run away from something in your stomach, right?"

"Yes, I can! Fuck you!"

"Sis, you're being stupid. You're just freaking out, alright?"

"I know that!" There was a long pause, during which Grif heard another couple of plane announcements. "Dex, I'm... I'm kinda scared. Well, really scared. Kids are scary and giving birth is gonna hurt! I'll have to stretch more than when I'm giving someone a Mexican Halloween!"

"Ick, I don't wanna hear about what sex positions you do with people!" Grif rubbed his forehead for a few moments. "Now, listen to me. You listening?"

"Yeah…"

"Look, you're a Grif. And you know what Grifs are?"

"Lazy fuck-ups?”

"Fuck yeah. We're lazy fuck-ups who take the easy way out every time. It's pretty much in our genetics to run off to another country to try and escape kids that haven't popped out yet. But you can't run away from this kid. Shit's gonna happen, no matter what. You're gonna give birth to the kid and running off to Hawaii ain't gonna change that."

"But I... I can't take care of a kid. I'm gonna fuck it up."

"I'm pretty sure most parents out there fuck it up. I mean, look at Mom. Now, are you gonna run off and join the circus?"

"No."

"Then you'll be a better mother than she ever was. And like I said! We're Grifs! We take the easy way out, and there are tons of ways to half-ass raising kids! Just have to find them. And I have total faith that you'll be able to find all the half-assed ways to do this, Sister."

"That's the crappiest motivational speech I've ever heard, Dex," Sister complained.

"You see? Even my speech about half-assing it was half-assed! Genetic material, sis."

"I... guess you're right? I think? I dunno. Man, I'm confused. But yeah, I didn't wanna ride around on a plane anyway. Okay... I'm going back."

"Worst comes to worst, you can just give the kid up for adoption, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Never thought of that." Sister sounded a bit more cheerful now. "So, why were you calling, anyway?"

Grif paused for a long time. Now that the worry was gone, the grief was starting to rise up again. He shut his eyes for a few moments before saying, "Nothing. I... I just wanted to check on you. Will you be coming in here once the kid is out?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't be long. Doctor said it'd happen in, like, a week."

"A week? And you're running around airports? Jesus, Sister! Go home, get some rest, alright?"

"Fineee…"

Once they'd both hung up, Grif leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead to the bricks. He probably should have told her about Simmons. It was what he'd called for. But... he didn't want to pile that on her, on top of everything else. Or else she'd probably fly off on a different plane to try and find the Necronomicon.

After the birth. After the birth, he'd tell her. And hope she'd take it better than he was.

Grif took a few deep breaths before heading back to the cells. When he got back to the row he headed right for Donut’s cell.

Donut and Caboose were both on Donut’s cot together. Donut looked like he was asleep, with Caboose’s arms wrapped around him. Caboose was awake, chin resting on Donut’s shoulder and gazing off into the distance.

Grif took a step into the cell. Caboose’s head jerked up a bit, and he fixed Grif with an intense, suspicious stare. Grif met his eyes squarely for a moment, then nodded his head at Donut. After a moment of pause, Caboose nodded and flopped his head back down, though he didn’t stop watching Grif.

Grif rolled haphazardly onto the cot, making it squeak alarmingly. Donut opened his eyes, watching Grif with an expression that was either sad or relieved. Maybe both.

That expression, however, was quickly wiped away by an expression of mild disgust.

“Oh god, you smell,” Donut groaned.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You’re gonna stink up my sheets. This is your warning. Next time, you shower before joining the cuddlepile.”

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind if I ever decide to become a cuddle addict like you and Caboose.”

“Good.” Donut peered sleepily at him, the disgust replaced with that pensive, worried expression. “So?”

“So what?”

“You know what, Grif.”

“...Guess I do. Ugh. No more talking.”

“Grif—“

“One more day. I can at least promise that much. But… no more talking. Alright?”

“Alright.” Donut sat up a little, only to wrap his arms around Grif and yank him into the cuddlepile before almost immediately nodding off again. Caboose shifted a little to accommodate the new position and shut his eyes again, too.

Grif might have protested, normally. He did like cuddling, he was just more exclusive about who he did it with than Donut and Caboose were. They’d cuddle a cactus. But right now, honestly, it felt nice. Maybe what Grif had been looking for when he climbed onto the bed, subconsciously or not.

Grif ended up falling asleep as well, more soundly than he had since Simmons died.

 

* * *

 

Three days after York was injured, he was told that he'd recover. It’d take a while, and he’d need to do regular stretches to keep the muscles from going stiff. He’d be out of work for a while. But he’d get better.

The day after this news was given, Wash was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well since York’s injury, and York had insisted they go out drinking as a celebration once he was allowed out of the hospital. Of course, York was on heavy painkillers and thus not allowed to drink, so he insisted that Wash drink twice as much to make up for it.

Bad idea. And the hangover made it a little harder to notice things like Doc sneaking up on him.

"Hey, Wash! Wash!”

"Dammit."

"That's not very nice..." Doc started trotting alongside Wash as he walked down the corridor. "So, um, heard about York. He's gonna be okay, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good. Heh, it's probably a good thing I wasn't the one treating him. ...No, I shouldn’t joke about that."

Doc went quiet. When Wash looked at him, he saw that Doc was staring at him rather intently.

"What are you looking at?"

"Um. Nothing! Not you. I wasn't studying you and looking for signs of insanity."

"That's pretty specific, Doc."

"Uh, well, I couldn't help but notice you didn't show up for your therapy session. And I got these really nifty psyche evaluation forms now."

“Wow. Forms. Because that makes you a completely competent and qualified therapist," Wash muttered.

"Hey, I'm working on it! I'm gonna start taking some night classes or something on the subject. But right now, forms is a good step. Anyway... what am I supposed to say if you haven't been evaluated? What am I going to tell the new warden when he asks 'why wasn't this person evaluated despite rumours of insanity?'"

"Like it matters."

"It might. Sarge was the one who ordered me to do this. Maybe he's gonna tell the new warden about this stuff." Doc hurried forward and blocked Wash from moving ahead. "Wash, I... I know you don't like therapy. But can you please, pleeeease just show up? Just so I can tick a box that says you showed up?"

Wash raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously giving me puppy eyes?"

"...Maybe."

"That doesn't work on me."

"Darn."

"But I guess you're not going to leave me alone if I say no."

"Oh, good! Let's go, then."

"Wait, right now?"

"I'm trying to stop you from running away. I mean, if you're okay with that."

"You suck at forcing people into therapy."

“I'm not forcing you! I’m coercing you. No, wait, that’s bad. Um. Encouraging you!”

 

* * *

 

"Catch!”

Tucker heard Church say this, but had no idea what he was throwing nor which direction he was throwing it in. "Dude! Blind! I can't catch stuff you throw at me!"

"Yeah. But I'm an asshole, so…"

"Douchebag. I didn't even hear it land." Tucker started feeling around on the ground for whatever Church had tossed, hoping it wasn't something sharp.

Church laughed. Tucker could tell from the volume that he’d moved closer. "Eh, quit looking, I'll get it. It's a bandana. To tie around your eyes and all that."

"Oh. Awesome!"

"Uh, bad news, though. It's pink tie-dye." Tucker could just hear the smug bastard grinning.

“Fuck you, no it isn’t. You’re fucking taking advantage of my blindness to play tricks. That’s blind-cist. Blind-cest. No, that sounds like I’m fucking other blind people. It’s something, is what it is.”

“Nah, it’s legit. I let Donut pick the colours.”

“Well, with the mood he’s been in lately I’m surprised it’s not blood-red and soaked in the innards of half the prison. Eesh.”

Church snorted. “Right? Come on, let’s try this on. Make sure it fits before Junior visits.”

“Yeah… yeah.” Tucker sat as still as he could, although Church’s hands that close was giving him the urge to fidget a bit. “You got a good haul from Doc, then?”

“Not bad. Actually, he threw in the cloth for free. Said to tell you to get better.”

“Yeah, sure I’ll grow my eyes back any day now.”

“That’s what I said. He kinda backtracked after that. Anyway, he gave me some good alcohol. Most of it shit that anyone’ll want. And I’m sure I can get Donut to buy the bottle of pink stuff. Also managed to negotiate with Doc for some packs of playing cards with the naked chicks on them. Consider that your porn. I told Doc it was healthier for the inmates to have pictures of naked ladies than for them to be riding each other bareback in the shower.”

“Greater good, huh?”

“Yeah. Long as I got my reasons straight, Doc’ll go along with anything. We keep this up, and maybe see if we can dig out some of Wyoming’s old connections and convince them to help us instead. We’ll have a black market better than anyone in prison, and that’ll be way safer than being ‘the guys who blackmail everyone.’”

"Heh, good point there."

"And... yeah, it's attached. Comfortable?" Church said, as he finished tying on the bandanna.

“Kinda. You still haven’t told me what colour it actually—“ Tucker paused, then let out an exaggerated groan. “Dude, are you petting my face?”

“...Shit, sorry. Wasn’t really thinking.” The fingers that had been lightly touching Tucker’s face moved away.

“Nah, it’s fine, just… y’know, warn me first.”

“And alright, it’s blue. Or something. Teal. Aquamarine. Seafoam. Fuck if I know the exact shade.”

 

* * *

 

"Uh. So, you want to lie down on the sofa? It's very comfortable. Well, not really. It's kind of pokey. I think there’s some loose springs."

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Doc drummed his fingers against his notepad, staring at Wash. Wash had his arms crossed and was staring at the ceiling, looking completely uninterested.

"So... how was your day?" Doc asked.

"Stop stalling. No filler questions. Just give me the form or start the therapy. I've got things I would rather be doing."

"Okay, okay, no need to be snippy..." Doc handed over one of the evaluation sheets that he'd located. "Just fill in the bubbles."

Wash stared down at the form for a few moments. "First off, Doc. You're going to have to give me a pencil or something to fill this out. Second of all... there's no questions on this sheet! It's just a bunch of numbers and bubbles."

"Oh, right. That's the answer sheet, I have the list of questions around here. Erm, somewhere." Doc rifled around through the various stacks of files he had around, finally locating the question sheet. "Here you go."

Wash shook his head before taking the sheet and reading it. He looked at Doc and raised his eyebrow. "Um. Doc? Did you print this off a random website?"

"Kind of."

"It's most likely not going to be accurate." Wash started filling out the bubbles quickly. A little too quickly. He didn't seem to be leaving enough time to actually read the questions.

"...Wash?"

"What? Did I fill in a bubble wrong? Not use enough pencil?" Wash asked sarcastically.

"You're doing it too fast. Are you just filling in the bubbles randomly?"

"...No."

"You sure? Because..." Doc quickly reached over and grabbed the test, comparing it with the question sheet. "You ticked a lot of contradicting answers. You said you had low self-esteem in one question and that you consider yourself highly desirable in another."

"Crap." Wash started rubbing out the bubbles. "Is it so surprising that I'd randomize it? I know I'm perfectly sane. And you printed this from the internet. At least get your forms from a legitimate source! What, did you use Wikipedia to diagnose your patients, as well?”

"Ye—no."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm pathetic? Just because I want to help you get over your fear of the dark and other such issues?"

"No, because..." Wash trailed off. His eyes got narrow. "Okay, who told you that? Either York, Donut or O'Malley blabbed it out, or you read my private files."

"Um, well... yeah, I read your files. I'm your therapist, I needed to know what was wrong with you and—hey!" Wash had climbed to his feet and started towards the door. "Wash! Wash, wait! Can't we just—"

"Save it! Save your stupid, incompetent psychobabble for someone who gives a shit, Doc. You've read the files cover to cover, I guess? Seen all the reports?" Wash was still facing the door. He wouldn't look at him.

"Yeah…"

"Then you already know what happened. So, what exactly were you planning on doing to 'fix it?' Hours of throwing terms you don't even understand at me? Cookies and hugs? There isn't anything that can be done for what's already happened, and even if I needed the help—which I don't—then do you really think you're going to be able to help? You? A five-year-old holding a clipboard and wearing fake glasses would do better at pretending to be a therapist than you!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Doc asked, raising his voice over Wash's.

Wash stopped talking, though he didn't turn around to face Doc. But nor did he storm out. Doc stared at his back for a few moments, then took a few deep breaths before continuing.

"Look, I know I'm terrible at this. And I know even if I try I probably won't get anywhere near the level of a proper psychiatrist. I mean, psychiatry is another brand of doctoring, right? And everyone knows how good I was at that. It kept occurring to me the entire time I was reading over your files... the fear of the dark, the state the police found you in, your time in the mental hospital, all of it... All I could wonder was how I could manage to fix something like that. I know very well that I can't. I don't expect to heal all the physical and mental scars with a snap of my fingers.

"But, after a couple of days of thinking, I thought of one thing I could do. Just the one. I can listen. I know that I can't give the most sound medical advice in return, but I can still hear you out. And I promise you that I will listen to every last word you have to say and try to help however I can. I know it's not much... but maybe it'll be enough to help. Even just a little. But I can't even do that if you won't talk about it."

Doc waited for Wash to respond, wondering if he'd been a bit aggressive in raising his voice. Wash didn't move. He just stood there, facing the door. Then he turned around to look at Doc. He was wearing an odd expression. Kind of confused, like he wasn't quite sure what Doc was talking about. Then he spoke.

"There's nothing to talk about."

He pulled open the door and left.

"Wait! Wash! Come on, Wash! Don't repress your feelings!" Doc yelled after him.

 

* * *

 

When Doc started calling after him, Wash sped up his footsteps. He would not be dragged into this ridiculous therapy. Filling in a test with randomized answers was one thing, but Wash was not going to talk about... everything... with a guy who straight out admitted he had no clue what the fuck he was doing.

No matter what he already knew, Wash wasn’t going to tell him any more. In the meantime, he needed to hide. Make sure Doc didn't hunt him down. Passive-aggressive little jerk.

Wash hurried along, rounding the corner so fast that he didn’t notice anyone until he walked smack into Donut. Donut yelped before backing against the wall, staring Wash down.

“Oh,” Wash said, eloquence personified.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Donut said tersely. As he did so, there were footsteps. Grif appeared beside him, looking like he hadn’t showered since the riot and smelling like illegal jailhouse liquor.

“Hrm?” Grif grunted. He looked at Donut, back pressed against the wall and bandages over the nose that Wash had broken, then back to Wash. There was an immediate, though slight, shift in Grif’s stance. He stood a little straighter, and moved just forward enough so that he was just in front of Donut. “We’re not doing anything.”

“I… I know that?” Wash said.

“Grif, it’s fine,” Donut muttered, tugging Grif’s sleeve. Grif looked back at Donut, hesitating, then shifted to stand next to Donut instead of in front of him.

Wash looked at the two, then focused his attention on Donut. The usual dislike and angry confusion still bubbled in his stomach. But quieter. Overlaid by other feelings.

“Can I talk to you?” Wash asked.

“You’re already talking,” Donut said.

“Don't get smart with me. I meant in private.” Wash spared a look at Grif, who glared back. “He can stay in the same corridor, just out of earshot. Is that enough?”

Donut and Grif exchanged glances. Donut nodded his head slightly at him, and Grif raised his eyebrows in response before taking a few steps back. Donut watched Grif back away until he was out of earshot, before turning to Wash.

“What do you want now?”

"York's going to be fine," Wash said. "He’ll have some scars. Need some rest. But he’ll be back."

Donut stared back at Wash. “…I don’t care? Why’re you telling me? Look, I had nothing to do with York, so you don’t need to punch me again.”

“You did have something to do with him. He told me.” Wash stuck his hands in his pockets, looking upwards. It was his turn not to make eye contact. “He… told me that when the red zealots stabbed him, you stepped in. You made them leave. And if you hadn’t, they would have killed him.” With some difficulty, Wash met Donut’s eyes again. “Why’d you do it?”

Donut stared back for a moment before looking away. “Why’s it matter?”

“I’m curious, mostly.”

“Given the amazing time you two have given me here, I guess I can understand that,” Donut said, voice full of fake cheer.

Donut looked over at Grif, and the fake, sardonic grin he was wearing faded. Donut watched Grif for a moment, then turned back. Wash waited, hands still in his pockets.

“I… I’m sick of people dying,” Donut said slowly. “And I’m sick of not doing anything about it. So I decided… no.”

“...You just decided no?”

“Yeah. No-one dies around me until I say so. That’s what I decided,” Donut said grimly. “Besides, I’m not an asshole. It’s called basic human decency, Wash. I know you’ve never heard of the concept before.”

“Basic human—you’re in prison! For murder! You can’t claim a sense of human decency!”

“You’re right, I should have just let Maine kill me. Clearly I’m horrible for not letting it happen. Guess we’re in another cycle of me telling you things you don’t want to hear, huh?” Donut shook his head. “Great. Just what I need.”

Wash frowned, trying to think of a rebuttal. Donut kept talking before he could, however.

"Is that all you wanted to ask? Because if not, I've got things to do." Wash didn't move, so Donut shrugged and started to move past him.

Wash reached out and grasped Donut’s arm before he could leave. Not as hard as he might have priorly. Donut didn’t yell or scream, he just gave Wash a tired, annoyed look. At the other end of the corridor, Grif started to head towards them, but Donut shook his head slightly and Grif stopped again.

"I didn't say I was finished. And I'm not attacking you." Wash let go of Donut’s arm, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Look… I guess I don’t care much about why you did it. But, for what it’s worth… thank you.”

Donut rolled his eyes. “Wow. And that just makes up for all the punching and rape threats. This mean you’re going to stop following me into bathrooms and closets?”

Wash tilted his head, watching Donut for a moment, before saying, “For now.”

“...Whatever, that’s something.”

 

* * *

 

"Sarge? Are you using your desk as a pillow again?"

"Shuddup, Flowers."

Flowers sat down on the edge of Sarge's desk. "I'm starting to worry about this bout of alcoholism, friend. You've smelt consistently of whiskey or pina colada since the riot. ...And your clothes look rather rumpled, did you sleep in them?"

Sarge grunted, his face buried in the files on the zealots who worshiped the Red flag.

"Well? Did you?" Flowers repeated, taking on the sort of tone a stern father would when asking if his kids had stolen cookies from the cookie jar.

"Maybe."

"Was the missus happy with that?"

"She locked me out of the house last night. Said she was sick of the drinking."

"Well, reasonable enough. I suppose the fact that you lost your job hasn't helped relations."

"She doesn't know that part."

"Oh dear. You should get around to explaining that part to her."

Sarge lifted his head from the desk. The files he'd been lying on briefly stuck to the side of his face before peeling off and flopping to the floor. "I don't want to," he grumbled.

"She'll find out eventually."

"No, she won't."

"I think she'll eventually notice when you stop going into work and stop getting paid."

"I'll figure out something... stop chatting, this ain't no ice-cream social. You're making my head hurt."

Flowers frowned, before tugging the files away from Sarge. He also grabbed some of the nearby forms and started filling them in.

"What in sam hell are you doing, goldilocks?"

"You don't seem to be working. And I've seen enough of these forms filled in to know how to do it. Sign the bottoms of these forms and then go home for the day. Explain yourself to the missus." Flowers scribbled down a few more notes on the forms. "I assume you'll want each of the zealots transferred to different prisons? To stop them from regrouping and wrecking more havoc?"

"Don't decide what I want and don't want. And quit filling in my paperwork! Especially with blue pen! How dare you bring a blue pen into this... this..." Sarge rubbed his forehead and rested it back on the desk. "Ah, hell. I'm not even in the mood for blue-hating."

"That depressed, hm?”

"I don't want to lose this job, alright? What other job am I supposed to take, now? They won't let me rejoin the army at my age. And I doubt they'd even let me become a prison guard here for the same reasons. Something about sixty-year-olds being too fragile. Hah, bullhonky, the load of it." Sarge let out a long, wistful sigh. "I'm gonna miss the reoccurring violence and punching of things…"

"I'm sure you can find some other way to meet your violence quota," Flowers said cheerfully. "You won't give up that quickly, would you? Perhaps you could wear a hood and be one of those vigilante crimefighters from those comics all the kids are reading nowadays."

"I ain't wearing a hood."

"Well, up to you. But in any case... rampant alcoholism and hiding things from your missus aren't going to help matters. It's very negative behavior."

Sarge said nothing.

"Are you silent because you don't want to admit that a dirty Blue is making sense?" Flowers guessed.

"...Maybe."

"Well, just go home and I'll cover for your work, today. Any calls come in, I'll just do my secretary voice and tell them you're in a meeting."

"Alright, if you're gonna keep nagging like a fussy nanny. But don't be using this momentary power to give the rest of the Blues advantages! I'll only let you transfer the zealots because their murderous bloodlust has no sense of direction! They haven't killed a single Blue, they just keep attacking Reds! Traitors, the lot of them.”

 

* * *

 

Doc was currently organizing a list of inmates and employees of the prison, going through the list and making sure he had a blank psych form for each to fill out. He was still certain that some particularly needed help, but he couldn't officially judge people's saneness without some kind of measuring system. Well, judging was a bit harsh, he didn't want to judge anyone... just to evaluate. Evaluate was a nicer word.

Unfortunately, Doc was so absorbed in his papers that he wasn't paying any attention to the door. He didn’t hear it open. He didn’t even notice O’Malley peering over his shoulder at the forms. He was oblivious until O’Malley grabbed the back of his chair and tipped it over, letting Doc tumble to the floor.

Before Doc could even really process the fact, O'Malley stood over him, raised one foot and pressed it to Doc's throat. He didn't press down hard, just enough so that Doc could feel pressure but still breathe.

"Go for the pepper spray and I snap your throat," O'Malley hissed.

"You're out of SHU, then?" Doc squeaked, in a failed attempt to be casual. Like he wasn't afraid of the shoe pressing against his throat. Though, truth be told, he was more afraid of where the shoe had been than it actually crushing his windpipe.

"No, Doc. I'm just using magic powers to project an illusion into your office," O'Malley said sarcastically. "I've been out for the last day. I would have come to visit you immediately, but I had some preparations to make first."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a roughly made shiv. Not the best one Doc had seen, it had clearly been put together in a rush. Didn't even look that sharp.

"Yes, I know," O'Malley said, like he'd been reading Doc's mind. "But my focus is still rather scattered. The only reason I could concentrate long enough to make this one is because the medication Dr. Filss has placed me on is much better than whatever you were pumping me full of." O'Malley smiled down at him. "Now, before you rudely interrupted me last time, I believe I was about to cut one of your eyes out."

Doc instinctively shut his eyes, but O'Malley put more pressure on his throat, just enough to cut off his breathing.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he said. Doc reluctantly opened them and O'Malley let him breathe again. "However, I reconsidered. Maybe I'll cut out an eye, but maybe I'll cut off something else."

O'Malley lifted his foot from Doc entirely, only to crouch down and swing one leg over Doc, straddling him. He brushed the side of Doc's face with the shiv, being careful not to leave scratches.

"Maybe I'll remove an ear. Or cut out your tongue to stop your incessant whining about anything you deem offensive. Although..." O'Malley grinned wider before digging the tip of the shiv into the side of Doc's face, leaving a cut that was shallow but stung like mad. Doc let out a short, high-pitched noise that cut off abruptly as he tried to stay quiet. "Removing your tongue would be rather sad. Forcing noises out of you is one of the most enjoyable parts of our activities."

"O'Malley—" Doc started, but O'Malley interrupted him.

"Shut up. I'm not done. If you interrupt me, I'll remove something lower." He reached back and briefly cupped the front of Doc's pants. "So, unless you want your genitalia to match your attitude—"

"I don't think you'll do it," Doc said quickly. O'Malley raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you? Why? Something about how everyone had some goodness within them? Or a different reason that's equally stupid."

"Not the goodness thing. I mean, if there's anyone who makes me believe not everyone has good inside them, it's you…"

"I'm flattered."

"But if you cut it off, I'll probably bleed out. Even I know that,” Doc said, his voice surprisingly calm considering the situation. “And then you wouldn't have anything to do. I guess since you went through so much trouble to get me back here... well, that has to mean something."

"It means nothing. You're just more amusing."

"Amusement is still something." Doc stared up at O'Malley. "And I don't appreciate being treated like this."

"So? You don't get a choice in the matter."

"Yes, I do. I can leave."

"Oh, Doc, are we going to go through that again? Do you want another riot? Do you want blood and intestines to stain the stone floors?"

"No. But... but I don't want you hurting me, either. I'm a human being and I deserve to be treated that way, even if... if I'm kinda worthless."

"You barely qualify. You're not a being. You're a thing." O'Malley leaned forward and scraped his teeth against Doc's neck, causing an intake of breath and Doc to shake his head, mouth moving noiselessly. "An interesting thing, one that makes fascinating noises if you poke it in certain places... but that just makes you the humanoid equivalent of a squeaky chew toy."

"I think you should fill out the psych form!" Doc blurted out.

"No," O'Malley snapped.

"Please?"

"Therapy is ridiculous. And I will not sit through it, even if you're the one conducting it."

"Hear me out. If you don't, I'll run for it," Doc said. "I mean... uh, when my shift is over. But I'll run! Really fast! I can do that, I did track in high school." He didn't really intend to run. He couldn't let O'Malley start more bloodshed. But it was worth a try.

O'Malley glared at him for a few moments before saying, "You have thirty seconds to talk. But you're making me extremely impatient and irritated. And if I'm not convinced, I'll cut off your legs so you can't run."

"Okay, um... so, with how things are going right now, you're visiting me sometimes and then getting thrown in SHU for ages, right?"

"Correct. Urgh."

“So, I was thinking... that if you signed up for regular therapy sessions, you would have an excuse. And I would get to study you and your..." Doc struggled for a moment for words. "Your thought patterns. Study your thought patterns."

"No therapy."

"Please?"

"Do you think begging is going to help?"

"If you say no, I'll run."

"Maybe I'll kill you before you can do that then, hm?" O'Malley growled.

"But you put so much effort into getting me back. I don't think you'd kill me after all that."

"Is that a challenge?"

"No! No, not at all!" Doc yelped. "I just think we'd both be happier if we went along with this."

O'Malley kept glaring. He moved forward, his face inches from Doc's. "And what, do you think, will happen when I inevitably get bored of you?"

"Um. I don't know. Probably nothing good. But until then..." Doc shrugged. "Can it really hurt you to go along with this? Don't you hate... dislike... SHU? You'd prefer being loose, right?"

O'Malley stayed silent for a few agonizing moments, his fingers tapping along the handle of his shiv. Then he grinned.

"I suppose there's little chance you could glean anything from any therapy you put me through. Not with your level of skill, which I'm fairly certain is in negative numbers. You have yourself a deal. I'll visit regularly and you'll make sure there's never any guards around to throw me into the shoe."

"Alri—hey!" Doc tried to scramble back as O'Malley reached down and started unfastening his shirt. He couldn't move, however, because O'Malley was still straddling him. "O’Malley, I said… can’t you fill out the form first?"

O'Malley's grin could have split his face as he undid Doc's purple shirt, exposing the torso. "Oh, I’m still agreeing to your contract. But any good contract needs a signature.” He twirled the shiv before resting the point against the middle of Doc's chest. "Not to worry. It'll bleed a lot, but the carvings won't be lethal. However, they will be permanent. Try not to thrash, my pet. Or you may suffer worse for it."

With that, the shiv dug in. Deep, but in a careful way that spoke of O’Malley’s expertise as a surgeon, even with only shivs instead of surgical tools.

Doc didn’t struggle. Or at least, he tried not to. He bit down on his sleeve, the screams that would have normally spilled from him reduced to strained, muffled whines. He wanted to scream. He wanted to thrash. But if he did, he’d leave with extra scars. He could feel his chest being soaked in thick, coppery liquid. Welling up and spilling from the cut that O’Malley was making.

It felt like it took hours, but in reality it was over quickly. O’Malley lingered for a long time after it was finished. Doc had unclear memories of it. He did recall an odd gentleness in O’Malley’s hands after the ‘signature’ was complete, but maybe that was just so he didn’t tear the mark.

Only when O'Malley left much later could Doc properly clean up. Doc had to sneak up to the infirmary and borrow some cloth to wipe the dried blood away with, and some bandages to put over the injuries. Although he could explain to Sheila the cut on his face ("I fell off my chair and scraped my face on something, ha ha, silly me") he didn't let her see the rest. He waited until he was back in his office before reopening his shirt to wipe away the blood.

He frowned at the markings O'Malley had left. At the Greek letter done in red, spread across the middle of his chest. He was marked now. Like a little kid had scrawled their name on him. Doc traced his fingers over the cut, and he felt sick and used.

He had a feeling he’d made a big mistake. He knew that this deal with O’Malley wouldn’t be pleasant for him. That running was still probably a better option for him on a personal level. But it’d hurt too many other people. And what would he do if he didn’t have this? Back to a coffee shop? Back to being useless to everyone?

At least this way, O’Malley had to deal with Doc on his own terms. Raw terms, but terms nonetheless.


	31. Chapter Twenty-Three: Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church and Tex make a deal. Grif and Donut talk through some feelings. Wash deals with some uncomfortable emotions of his own. And O'Malley gives Donut a once-in-a-lifetime offer.

"Hey, asshole. Come over here for a minute." Tex gestured at Church as she passed by his and Tucker's table in the cafeteria. Church pulled a face before getting up.

"Could have asked nicely, bitch. Tucker, I'm just following Tex for a bit, don't eat my lunch. That apple juice is mine, dammit."

"Eh. No promises."

"Fuck you."

Church followed Tex out of the cafeteria. They passed Wash and North on the way. North was rather amiably talking to Wash, or rather at Wash, since Wash was barely responding at all.

Once they were out of earshot of the cafeteria, Tex turned around to face him, arms crossed. "I saw you trading with a couple of inmates. Handing them things. Didn't see what they were. You wouldn't be starting up a new business, would you?"

"Why must you notice everything?" Church grumbled.

"Well? Are you?"

"Maybe. Kinda. Yes, okay. But it's harmless shit, really. I'm just taking over Wyoming's old job. I swear, there's nothing too illegal in it. Alright, maybe some alcohol. But no drugs. I don’t want that kind of heat."

"Yeah? Where you getting it from?"

"Like I'm gonna tell you."

"Hey, I'm not going to tell," Tex said. "I just wanna know."

"Alright. I'm getting it from Doc. We have an agreement."

"He agreed to this? Doc? Mr. ‘Doesn’t Even J-Walk?’"

"Yeah. I convinced him it was for the greater good. He’s afraid of the law but he’s also a giant soft-hearted baby if I tell him about prison hardships,” Church said, grinning.

Tex rested against the wall, arms still crossed. "So, set on becoming the kingpin of the inmates again?"

"I guess. I just don't wanna get beat up. Or for Tucker to get attacked. You know, again."

"Aww, how sweet," Tex cooed sarcastically.

"Fuck you. It's better money, anyway."

"But I definitely prefer you smuggling to blackmailing, this is a lot less dangerous. I won't have to keep such an eye on you and dive in to stop you from being shivved again. You're a hard jerk to keep alive, sometimes. Maybe this will help."

"Maybe. I mean, no-one ever touched Wyoming. If I could get a monopoly on the cigarette trade, like he had, I'd probably be fuckin' set up for life. But Doc's a total bitch about it. I can’t convince him that cigarettes have some part in the greater good."

Tex didn't say anything, but she looked amused.

"What are you looking at?”

"I'm right here, you know. You could just ask."

"What?"

"Man, you're slow today. Okay. I bring in the cigarettes. You sell them and then pay me for more cigarettes. I get a cut of the profits. And inmates will become too dependent on the nicotine to kill the supplier, a.k.a you. Everyone wins."

"Eh, I don't know..." Church mumbled.

"What? I've smuggled shit in for you before."

"Yeah, but occasional things. Not a steady supply. If you get caught, they might even fire you. Depends."

"Oh please,” Tex snorted. “They aren't gonna kick me out, I'm the toughest guard here. They know I'll rip out their skulls and beat them to death with it if they snitch on me. Besides, it's just cigarettes and I need the extra cash. And you don't seem to have any issue with Doc getting potentially fired."

"First off, I don't care about Doc. Secondly, I think he's immune to being properly fired. I mean, after that trainwreck of being a doctor they hire him right back as a therapist?"

"Point taken."

"And third, I accidentally got you fired from your policewoman job—"

"That was hardly the worst thing you did," Tex muttered frostily.

"I know, I know! Ugh, look, I don’t want to get that road, I know that was all messed up. The point is, I don't want to get you fired again."

"Okay, we'll do this the old-fashioned way. Make the deal or I take pictures of you and Tucker getting it on—"

"How do you even know—"

"Don't interrupt. And then I will sell them to creepy people on the internet. I'm sure there's someone out there with a fetish for grumpy or blind prisoners."

"Hah, there's no sex yet! Foiled, bitch!"

"Most people wouldn't brag about that."

"Shut up. But alright, if you're that desperate to break the law by bringing me cigarettes, sure."

"Excellent. I'll bring in a carton tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Grif was lying on his cot and staring at the ceiling. Not really anything new. But he wasn’t in the mood to do anything, and even if he was there was never much to do in Valhalla. He’d tried picking up and reading one of Simmons’ old sci-fi books, but it had made his head hurt and his stomach feel weird and empty.

He stared at the ceiling, at the cracks he knew better than the back of his hand, and he thought about Sister. For all he knew, she could be giving birth right now. Worry had started gnawing at him periodically. What if something went wrong with the birth? Sister was right, at bare minimum it would hurt like a bitch. Made him glad that he didn’t have a vagina. Childbirth. Not being able to aim while peeing. Lots of bullshit.

The grief wasn’t troubling him as much that day, although maybe it was because the worry was layering over it like a shitty feelings cake. Even so, Grif would sometimes scratch at the scabbed over nick on his wrist, feeling the painful yet oddly fulfilling sting whenever he dug his nails in a little too much.

“Catch.”

Grif didn’t have time to reach up before a packet of Oreos hit him in the face. He had an odd sense of deja vu, and for a moment he expected to see Simmons standing in the doorway. The moment passed.

“Donut. What the fuck,” he said.

“Caboose gave them to me. He said they were yours and that you didn’t deserve to have them because you were a, and I quote, ‘poopface.’ Managed to convince him, though.” Donut walked in and sat on the bed. “So, uh… how’s stuff?”

Grif rolled his eyes. “Oh god, are we going back to pity? I would rather you go back to being all surly.”

“Surly? Hey, I’m not surly. I’m brooding,” Donut protested. “Brooding is cool. Surly is just grumpy.”

“I thought brooding was a chicken thing. Like the chicken has a bunch of babies and then pecks people’s faces. ...That is pretty accurate for you, actually.”

“Grif, no! Don’t ruin brooding. That’s all my romance novels ruined.”

“In this scenario, Caboose is probably the baby chick.”

“Like I don’t have to take care of you as well.”

Grif stuck his tongue out before sitting up, the bag of Oreos clasped in one hand. He studied Donut for a minute. Donut still did look pretty grumpy. He’d been grumpy since the riot. Probably since the infirmary.

“Grif… can I ask you something?” Donut said slowly.

“If it’s not about how I’m doing you can ask anything.”

“Alright. Alright...” Donut pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around then. “The, uh… the guy you killed...”

“The zealot?”

“No, not recently. The first guy. How… how well-planned was that? How intentional?”

“Sam? Not very.” Grif shifted his position on the bed so that he was sitting next to Donut. “I did go chasing after him, but I just wanted to kick the shit out of him. He got the upper hand—pulled a knife, the fucker. Simmons—“ Grif stopped. He stared off for a moment, a quick little pang in his chest, before continuing. “Simmons got around him and hit him with a baseball bat. I kicked him some while he was unconscious. One of those things killed him.”

“Oh,” Donut said quietly.

“What? Disappointed?”

“No, no, I was just…” Donut hesitated, not meeting Grif’s eyes. “I was just thinking about death.”

“Creepy. Ask Caboose.”

“I don’t like bringing it up around him. I mean, getting him off murdering people was rough enough.” Donut looked at Grif, then quickly looked away and started to climb to his feet. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you about it. I mean… not after—“

Grif rolled his eyes again and caught Donut’s arm before he could fully stand up, pulling him back into a sitting position. “I can hear the word death without crying, loser.”

“Yeah, but—“

“No buts. Sit down, we’re gonna talk about feelings and shit.”

“You said I wasn’t allowed to do that,” Donut complained.

“No, I said you’re not allowed to ask how I’m doing. But we’re gonna talk about you.” Grif was still holding the packet of Oreos, which he tugged open. He held it out to Donut. “Take.”

“Uh, what?”

“Just take a damn Oreo, Donut. ...God, a real Oreo donut would be the best.”

“Does sound nice,” Donut admitted as he reached out and took a cookie. “Thanks.”

“Eh, don’t mention it.” Grif stared into the packet of slightly crushed cookies and realised that he was hungry. Starving, even. He took out an Oreo and shoved it in his mouth, not even bothering to lick off the cream.

Didn’t taste as good as he remembered. Maybe because he was indoors, in a room that smelt of rotten alcohol. Maybe because he was sharing them with Donut, when what he really wanted was to be where Sister was. Or to have Simmons back.

But that wasn’t possible, and he had some shit to deal with here and now.

“Donut. I… kinda haven’t asked how you’re doing.”

Donut had separated the halves of his Oreo, and was now staring at the cream without eating it. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Fuck, when was the last time you were fine?”

“Right now. Because I’m fine.”

“Boooo.” Grif picked up another Oreo and tossed it at Donut. Donut gave him an exasperated look, picking up the thrown Oreo and tossing it back. “Come on, Donut, you’re not usually a bottle-it-up kind of guy. Normally I have a hard time shutting you up.”

“Well… normally less is going on,” Donut said quietly.

Grif rolled his eyes before lightly rapping his knuckles on the top of Donut’s head, earning a half-hearted grumble in response.

“Idiot,” Grif said. “You think you can’t be sad just because I am? Misery loves company, dipshit.”

Donut didn’t reply. He was still holding the halves of the first Oreo. Grif reached over and plucked the half with all the cream on it out of Donut’s fingers.

“Yoink!”

“You have a whole bag of Oreos.”

“Yeah, I know.” Grif stuck the Oreo half into his mouth. “Stolen Oreos taste better.”

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Wash. Phone call for you. It's York."

"Now? He knows I'm stuck in the middle of a shift I can't move from, doesn't he?" Wash asked flatly, staring out over the yard.

North shrugged. "Probably. Don't shoot the messenger, alright? I'll cover your shift here while you're gone. I was on break, just… I don’t know, cover my shift briefly next time I get a phone call."

"Whatever."

"I think you meant 'thank you, North, for being so nice even though I constantly call your sister a bitch,'" North said.

"I never said that, North. I might have thought it, and it might be true, but I never said it."

Wash trudged up to the staff’s breakroom. Knowing York, he would have called for one of two reasons. One, something really bad had happened. Like a sack of cement had been dropped onto his bad leg and he was now dying. Well, he'd phrase it as dead if he was in the mood to exaggerate. There was another reason he could be calling, which was much more likely.

The first words York said when Wash picked up the phone were, "We need to go drinking tonight."

Then it was the second reason. Wash rubbed his forehead before leaning against the counter, phone pressed to his ear. "This couldn't have waited until after my shift?"

"Of course not. We'd be wasting precious minutes," York said. "Use your logic, Wash."

"Can you can walk properly again? Because you know I can’t wheel you around if I’m the one who’s drunk. I’m not repeating last time."

“Hey, first off, I’ve gotten the hang of this now. It’s pretty fun, makes me almost regret that I’ll recover. Everyone should have wheels on their chairs. Because it's awesome. It's like how only people with bad legs have a legitimate reason for carrying a cane, but people still like to have canes for the dramatic effect. Especially if they're distinguished gentlemen or pimps."

"What."

"Pimps. I need a suit and a hat with a big feather, though. And a cane. ...Wait, I don't want to be a pimp. Never mind. Sorry, my mind got lost there for a moment. I think it's the painkillers. But that's neither here or there. You're coming drinking with me."

"You still can't drink on painkillers,” Wash sighed, prodding an empty coffee mug that someone hadn’t put away.

“Killjoy. But we're going somewhere, anyway. I'm bored. Are people still getting attacked or killed over there?"

"No. It's been rather quiet, actually. Well, as quiet as this hellhole gets. Sarge finally came to his senses and transferred all the zealots to other prisons. So we won't be getting any more trouble from them."

"Great. Because they were nuts."

"I'm aware of that."

"Crap, I'm probably holding you up from your shift, aren't I? Not that you don't wander off anyway to do things that almost start religious riots…"

"I'm sorry for pulling the flag down, alright?" Wash mumbled. "Can you stop bringing it up?"

"Only if you burn that stupid flag so another group of crazies don't start worshipping it."

"We can do that while we're hanging out."

"Excellent. Anyway, better get back to work. Well, not that anyone's paying attention, but better safe than sorry. Or something. Oh, and you're gonna have to turn up here and wheel me to the bar, because I keep not seeing rocks and other small objects and crashing my wheelchair. It's that damn left side."

“You said you had the hang of it! Just use crutches."

"But I don't want to. They hurt my armpits."

Wash hung up after a short argument of 'crutches vs. wheelchairs.' But he didn't return to his shift. Instead, he gazed at the phone, still leaning on the counter.

It could have been worse, all things considered. The zealots were known for disembowelment. Injuring a leg was a few steps up. At least York would recover. But one thought kept ringing through Wash's head.

What happens next time?

Whenever Wash closed his eyes he could see blood pooling on the floor. He could see York clinging to his leg and trying not to pass out. And then he could see York holding his face, covering his eyes after O'Malley slashed his face.

The first time York had been hurt it had been because of O'Malley. Wash had been trying to get information from at the time. When outright asking where Alpha, Delta and the others were didn't work... well, Wash got mean. Did things like locking him in SHU before he'd done anything to deserve it and 'forgetting' to bring him food, just hoping that he'd eventually crack. Wash didn't know if O'Malley half-blinding York was a response to that treatment, but it was always a possibility. But there was an equally strong chance that O'Malley did it simply because York was there.

This time, Wash couldn't claim that. The zealots hadn't attacked York for fun. They'd done it because of circumstances that Wash had caused. Just because he wanted to see Donut fight them off. There was no way to convince himself this wasn't the case.

So, what happens next time? Does York get hurt even more badly? Does he get killed?

Wash rested his forehead against the phone box, eyes still shut. Little pieces of memories kept floating through his mind. Of crazy laughter and snarling and his mouth burning whenever they gave him salt water to drink as a 'joke.' And then he remembered before that. Remembered Carolina sitting at a window, staring at a warehouse. Remembered those moments, those last moments where Carolina tried to talk the Meta down. The last moments before she'd been gunned down.

He'd failed to save Carolina. He couldn't let York die as well. Which meant he had to give up his grudge.

He had to stop trying to find ways to make Donut show how he'd killed Meta. He had to stop his attempts to get information out of O'Malley. He had to give it up, or this would happen all over again. And maybe, next time, York wouldn’t be so lucky.

But how was he supposed to do that? After fifteen years of scheming, training and trying to track down people he knew only by the sound of their voices at most? Hell, he'd put a lot of time and effort into it... He even had scrapbooks at home tracking random murders and other crimes that might have been caused by one of them. He had a wall of clippings with red pen scrawled over many of them. And the more Wash reflected on it, the more he realised how unhealthy and... dare he say it... insane the entire thing was.

But... how to give it up? How was he supposed to stop it from coming up in his mind whenever he heard O'Malley's name or saw Donut and wondered how a shrimp like that could stop a giant man-animal like Meta?

Doc’s words came to mind.

Wash frowned at just the thought of Doc sitting in his office and trying to help people with the expertise he didn't have. Talking to him probably wouldn't help.

But... nothing else was coming to mind. Wash had been forced into therapy at times, but he’d never cooperated. He didn’t like the idea of someone getting too deep into his head. Besides, if he’d talked about what had really happened… if word got out… then the Director would have sent someone after him. All it would have gotten was a shallow grave in the desert.

The Director probably didn’t watch him as heavily anymore. Not after fifteen years. And they wouldn't have any connections with Doc. Plus, Doc wouldn’t know the mechanisations of the human mind well enough to get too deep into Wash’s psyche. His lack of skill was almost a blessing in this case.

Wash stopped resting his head against the phone box and headed towards Doc's office. North could cover his shift for a bit longer.

 

* * *

 

"They've found a replacement?"

"Yep." Sarge tossed another card at the small bin that sat in the corner. He and Flowers had been planning to play Go Fish again, but the game hadn't seemed fun that day so they'd opted to instead throw cards at the bin and keep score of which ones landed inside it. Sarge was, naturally, throwing any red cards. Flowers was throwing black ones. "Replacement will be here in a week."

"Know anything about him?"

"Nothing at all. Just that he exists."

"Ahh. Have you told the wife yet?" Flowers threw a Jack of Spades inside the bin. "Eleven points.”

"Bastard. And yeah, figured I had to at some point."

"How'd she react?"

"She shouted at me for a bit for not telling her sooner and chased me around with a broom. Other than that, she wasn't that sizzled about it. I could have retired a long time ago. Just didn't want to." Sarge got another card inside the bin. "Seven points, Girlylocks. I still don't know what in sam hell I'm gonna do once I'm booted. I don't want to be retired. I'll have to garden and wear beige jumpsuits. And that is not the lifestyle for manly men."

"Vigilantism," Flowers suggested cheerfully.

"Not that again, I told you that was ridiculous. Superheroes wear tights. That's the antithesis of manly!"

"Five points."

"Yeah? Well..." Sarge threw a King at the bin. "There! Sixteen!"

"Kings are thirteen."

"I said sixteen, shut up."

"Maybe you could become a bouncer if you lie about your age. I don't think the requirements are too stringent. Caboose used to be one. Though, admittedly, that ended with him killing one of their strippers."

"Crazy ox. And I think the wife would disapprove if I started working at a strip club. Or a regular bar, for that matter." Sarge tossed another card, but it flew to the side and bounced off the wall instead. "Barnacles."

"I'm sure you'll find some way around it." Flowers flung his last card. It hit the wall and rebounded into the bin.

"Show off," Sarge muttered.

"I wouldn't show off, Sarge. It's not sporting." Flower's slightly smug grin said otherwise, though.

"You're a diabolical bastard, Flowers. Who's gonna keep you under control when I'm gone?"

“Who indeed, Sarge. Why, I’ll be free to reveal my true allegiance and manipulate affairs according to the whims of a powerful crime boss,” Flowers said, his voice not wavering a bit from his usual cheer.

“You bastard, I knew it.”

“And no-one will ever believe you.”

“Damn you and your mind games.”

 

* * *

 

Doc was reading over parts of 'Therapy For Dummies' when the door swung open. Doc's first reaction was to flinch. Usually people knocked. Doc had no appointments right now, so when the door opened he immediately assumed it was O'Malley. Even though he'd agreed to see O'Malley regularly that didn't stop him from flinching. The carving on his chest almost seemed to sting a little extra as he contemplated it.

When he looked up warily, however, he saw that it was Wash.

"Hey, Wash. What's—"

"Therapists have some kind of oath of silence, don't they?"

"What?”

"If I talk to you... you can't repeat anything I say to you, right? You can't tell other people?" Wash asked tersely. Doc had never seen Wash look so nervous.

Doc blinked a few times, his mind still processing what Wash was talking about. "Wait... you mean you're actually going to talk to me? About... your problems and all that?"

"Answer my question first. If I talk here, are you going to blab later?"

"Well... I'm not sure of the exact rule with therapists, to be honest." Doc scratched his chin, thinking. "But... the Hippocratic Oath says I can't tell people about my patients. I think there's an exception in life-or-death matters, but I'm not sure…"

"Fantastic medical expertise there, Doc."

"Uncalled for. Anyway, I think there's something like that for therapists... therapists are kinda like doctors, right? Although if someone turns up here and says 'I'm gonna kill this person' then I'm allowed to tell the person they plan to kill... something like that. But I won't tell anyone about anything you say, as long as you're not plotting murder. So... does that help matters any?"

Wash crossed his arms. "Hm..." He stared off into space for a few moments before shrugging. "Fine." He walked over to the couch and sat down stiffly, looking extremely uncomfortable. "But if you talk I'm... not gonna be happy."

Doc heard the unsaid 'and then I'll probably have to strangle you with your own intestines.'

"Uh, sure. No problem. I'm not gonna talk or anything, it's unprofessional. And I know I'm not exactly a professional, but..." He trailed off as he hurried back to his own chair, sitting down and feeling around for his notepad. Well, it was more a drawing pad, since there was probably less than fifty words in the entire thing. "Just let me find my notepad and we'll start."

"Leave the notepad. You said you were only good for listening. Don't bother to pretend otherwise."

"Um. Okay." Doc stopped feeling around for the notepad. "Then talk. I'm listening."

Wash drummed his fingers against his thigh. He opened his mouth a few times before closing it again. After the third time he did this he laughed bitterly. "This is harder than I thought it'd be."

"Take your time."

"I shouldn't have to take my time. They're just words," Wash muttered. "It shouldn't be so hard to say them."

"Well, maybe... erm..." Doc tried to think of something that would let Wash talk easier. But all he could think about was Wash's file. In particular, the file describing Wash's state when he was found by the police. And before he could catch himself, Doc blurted out, "Can I see?"

"What?"

"Uh... your file said that you had a lot of scars that appeared in the time you spent missing. I kinda wanted to see. Not... I mean, it's not necessary. It's just…"

"I'm not taking off my shirt. That's weird," Wash said flatly.

"No! No, I mean... I didn't mean that, I just…"

"It's fine. I... I don't really care. I only keep them covered so people don't ask questions. And since you're doing that, anyway..." Wash tugged at the ends of his sleeves, pulling them back and exposing the forearm. "It's easier just to show it than talk about it, I guess.”

Doc leaned forward a bit, squinting curiously at Wash's arm. To say it was a bit scarred was a horrible understatement. There were scars all over the place. But not the kind of scars you got with people who had rough jobs or got into fights a lot, where there were just nicks and scrapes here and there. These scars were obviously deliberate. Some of them were rather detailed. Shapes. Letters. Lined in oddly neat, decorative rows. There were exceptions. Like one spot near the wrist where it looked like someone had clawed at it heaps. But the rest was so artsy... Like someone had used Wash as a canvas. A really disturbing canvas.

"Is... is it like that all over?"

"No. There's... patches where it's like that. Usually where it was easiest to reach," Wash muttered.

And then Doc let out a yelp, because he saw the same symbol that was carved into his chest decorating Wash's arm, not far from the elbow. He automatically grabbed Wash's arm, turning it over to get a better look. Same symbol, repeated often. There were other ones... all Greek letters. A total of eight different letters, though Doc couldn't remember which were which. But the one O'Malley used jumped out at him.

"It's not that disgusting, is it? At least you didn't see it when it was fresh."

Doc looked up at Wash, who was looking back with a rather confused expression. Maybe puzzled about Doc's sudden yelp.

"I didn't know O'Malley was the one who did it to you," Doc mumbled. "Sorry, I... the records didn't name who'd done it... said they were on the loose, still."

"How'd you know?” Wash asked, eyes narrowed a little. Doc paled a little, and tried to come up with an excuse, but before he could comprehension crossed Wash’s face. “Oh, right. The Greek letters. Omega, right?”

“Right,” Doc said. “Right, yeah, that’s… that’s definitely what I saw.”

Wash pulled his arm away from Doc, turning it so that he could see the symbols for himself. "When the report was made, O'Malley hadn't been caught. And he was the only one who was ever caught and charged for... for what he did."

"There were others, then?"

"There were seven all together... well, eight, but one got killed shortly before they caught me." Wash's fingers traced the letters. His expression looked faroff. Like he wasn't quite in this conversation. "There was O'Malley... Omega, at the time. Then there was Gamma. O'Malley said he's dead. Don't know if it's true. Then there were two others who are definitely dead... Sigma, he was killed before... before this happened. And Meta was murdered a few years ago."

Doc didn't say anything. He just propped his chin on his hands and listened with strange, morbid curiosity.

"Then there was Theta. He didn't do much. I heard he was a spy for the Director, but I don't think he ever told them where I was. There was Epsilon. Compared to the others, he was actually an okay kid. Definitely young, his voice cracked on occasion. There was... Delta." Wash pronounced this name in the same sort of way someone would say a particularly insulting curse word. "And the last one I never even heard the voice of. They called him the Alpha."

"Why'd they have you?" Doc asked quietly.

Wash didn't say anything. He just clasped his hands and pressed his forehead against them. "Dammit... Doc, you said you'd have to tell if someone was in danger, right? But otherwise you have to keep it a secret?"

"Yeah?”

"Does it count if the person I'm talking about is already dead? Before you ask... I didn't kill her. And does it count if... if how she died wasn't really figured out by the police?" Wash looked back at Doc. There were a few cracks in his normally cranky expression. He looked a little scared. Like he'd said far too much already.

"You say you didn't cause the death? And that it's already happened?" Doc said cautiously.

"Yeah…"

"Then... as long as there's nothing we can do about it now... then I won't tell anyone. I don't know if that actually works with the rules therapists go by... but I promise I won't. If that's what it takes for you to talk to me, I won't."

"Above all... you won't tell York?"

"Why would I tell—"

"I asked if you would keep it secret from York. I didn't say why."

"Of course I will."

Wash shut his eyes, still pressing his clasped hands to his forehead. “They had me… because I worked for a rival crime boss. I was partnered with Carolina, and South—“

“South? You mean—“

“I mean the South you think I mean. Don’t tell her I told you this, either. I don’t need to give her another reason to shoot me.”

“Wash, I don’t want to interrupt you but… I think you need to start from the beginning, because I’m really lost here,” Doc said faintly.

Wash eyed Doc, then leaned back on the sofa. “...Alright. Alright. I’ll start from the beginning.”

Wash talked for a very long time. The longer he talked, the more the floodgates seemed to open. After a while, Doc wasn’t sure if Wash could have stopped even if he wanted to. Doc wondered how long Wash had bottled it all up for, although after a while Wash told him enough that he didn’t need to wonder.

Doc didn't have to say anything. He just had to sit there and listen. He wasn't even sure if he could have gotten a word in if he'd tried or if Wash would have heard it anyway. But he didn't try. He just listened. Because what else could he do?

All he could do was listen, assemble the pieces of Wash's past like some strange jigsaw puzzle and see if he could find a way to glue them together and make a healthy person, instead of this scarred, cranky man who was currently spilling many years of memories and regrets at him.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, the weather was colder than it’d been all month.

Donut was still in the yard, and Caboose was plodding along behind him, but very few inmates were outdoors. Grif’s response to the idea of going outdoors right now had simply been ‘eugh’ followed by wrapping his thin blanket tighter around him.

Donut worried about leaving him alone, but everyone else was in the cell block. Even Lopez, who had been spending his time elsewhere a lot because apparently the row was ‘too sad and homosexual.’ And Donut just needed some fresh air. Just to be safe, Donut had taken the shiv with him. It sat in his jacket pocket, and Donut periodically checked his pocket to make sure it was still there.

Donut looked back to see Caboose wrapping his jacket closer around him, shivering.

“You don’t have to follow me,” Donut said gently.

“I am not even a little bit cold,” Caboose claimed. “I want to see snowflakes.”

“Could happen. Maybe.” Donut looked up at the sky for a moment, staring at the few clouds he could see, before returning to stepping around the yard.

He caught a glimpse of red out of the corner of his vision. Donut turned abruptly to see O’Malley standing in the corner of the yard. Leaning against the wall and watching Donut with a smile. Upon seeing that Donut had noticed, O’Malley’s smile only grew wider.

Donut came to a stop, and Caboose walked into him.

“Oops.” Caboose took a step back, following Donut’s gaze. He paled upon seeing O’Malley there. “...Oh.”

Donut said nothing, just continued to watch O’Malley for movement.

“Um. Maybe we should go inside. Yes. Now,” Caboose babbled. He reached out and tugged Donut’s sleeve. “Um… Coffee Jelly?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Donut didn’t really move, but he allowed Caboose to tug him in the direction of the prison.

The two of them walked along silently, Caboose gripping Donut’s sleeve the entire way. They headed indoors and started making the trek back to the cell block. But every time they turned a corner, Donut thought he could see another glimpse of red out of the corner of his eye.

Donut came to a halt, his sleeve slipping out of Caboose’s grip. Every nerve in his body seemed to be humming quietly, like he was filled with electricity. Caboose stopped as well, looking back at him.

“Dabby-Doughs?”

“I think we lost him. Look, I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“I will go with you.”

“No, uh… go check on Grif. Okay?”

Caboose said nothing. He just squinted at Donut, the one cog in his head clearly turning as hard as it could.

“It’s fine, Caboose. Go on, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Caboose squinted at Donut for a moment longer before turning and leaving. He reached the end of the corridor, speeding up as he got near the end of it before bolting out of sight. Donut waited for a moment before turning around.

“What do you want now?” Donut said to the empty corridor. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets. One of them was gripping the shiv. Ready.

O’Malley stepped out, mirroring Donut’s hands-in-the-pockets stance, and took a few steps towards him

“I was wondering who bruised your pretty face,” O’Malley said, leering. “I want to send them flowers.” He looked over Donut’s shoulder at the empty corridor before adding, “Sent away your protection, hm? Not that Caboose could have protected you, if I really wanted to hurt you.”

“I’m not in the mood for you following me around. So get to your point,” Donut said coldly.

O’Malley grinned before pulling his hands out of his pockets. He held them up, palms exposed. No weapon to be seen. “Jumpy, aren’t you? I am trying to be reasonable here, cupcake.” He lowered his hands. “I’m in something of a bind. You see, I still owe you some vengeance for the little incident.” O’Malley stuck out his tongue, a line of bright pink still visible where the chunk had been sewn back on. “On the other hand, I’m in a situation where being placed in the shoe simply doesn’t work for me.”

“So?”

“I want a truce. Until I get bored, at least.”

Donut stared blankly at O’Malley for a good ten seconds. “...A truce.”

“That is the word I said, yes.”

“You. Of all people. Want a truce.”

“Would you just give me a yes or no?” O’Malley huffed.

“Why would I agree to that? I’m not the one who started riots. I’m not the one who goes around killing people. That’s you. You’re the one who can’t be trusted to stay with a truce, so why would I agree to it?” Donut said quietly, voice brimming with contempt.

O’Malley said nothing for a moment. He simply reached up and pulled his own collar down an inch. There was a thin, red scab from where Donut had nearly slit his throat.

“How innocent are you, really? You know… I did underestimate you. I thought you’d stay fragile and sugar-coated forever. But time after time, you prove me wrong.” O’Malley smiled, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin back on them. “If I didn’t have other things to do, I think I’d focus on seeing how far I could push you. Maybe one day.”

Donut said nothing. Just glared.

“And, I suppose I feel that I owe you something, too.”

“...Owe me?”

“Well…” O’Malley grinned so widely that it looked like his face was going to split in half. “If you hadn’t attacked me, I would have left with Wyoming. I would have been shot. So… you saved my life. And I am very grateful, my little bread roll. Very. Grateful. Indeed.”

Another ingredient dropped into the horrible, perpetually boiling crockpot of feelings deep in Donut’s stomach. Donut took a step forward. Grip tightening on the shiv.

“And what if I don’t want your truce?”

“Hm. What indeed?”

Donut took another step forward. The hand clenching his shiv started to pull out of his pocket, the handle of the shiv just visible.

A voice interrupted.

“You’d be fucked. That’s what,” Grif said, appearing behind Donut. Arms crossed, glare on O’Malley.

“Oh, would I? Because if anyone’s getting fucked here, it would be the meringue,” O’Malley said, grinning at Grif.

“ _Wrong._ ”

Although it was Lopez’s voice that spoke, Donut heard more than one set of footsteps behind him. A hand reached out and lightly touched the top of Donut’s head, feeling around a little to verify Donut’s identity, before Tucker turned up next to him. Donut looked behind him to see Church lingering back a little, watching. Grif and Lopez took up spots just ahead of Donut.

“ _You aren’t fucking anyone. You aren’t attacking anyone. You’re done, truce or not,_ ” Lopez said.

“You kinda forgot to take something into account, asshole,” Tucker said cheerfully. “You ain’t got shit left. I mean, Wyoming? Dead. The Zealots? Dead or in the hole until transfer to other prisons. Not sure about Andy, people were pretty pissed at him. Wouldn’t think he’d help you again. And Lopez, well—“ Tucker gestured at Lopez.

“ _Clearly I am not your minion. You made sure of that,_ ” Lopez said. “ _You’re a bony old man with a knife. You’re nothing._ ”

“No idea what Lopez said, but I’m assuming something along the lines of ‘you ain’t shit,’” Grif said.

“ _Mm. Only time we’ll ever be on the same page,_ ” Lopez said.

“You think I can’t find more minions?” O’Malley said quietly. The grin had faded somewhat.

“Actually, yeah,” Church said. “Because you know what? People already know I’m getting a hold of what supplies come in and out of the prison. So anyone who wants alcohol? Cigarettes? A fucking stick of gum or a packet of tissues? They’re gonna go through me, O’Malley. And what I say… what I will make sure everyone knows… is no-one who causes trouble, who gets involved in dumb shit… anyone who gets involved with you, in other words, will ever get shit from me. And unless another flag-worshipping cult turns up, pretty sure no-one’s gonna be that fuckin’ dumb.”

“We’re sick of riots. We’re sick of fighting. And we’re sick of you,” Grif said. “If there’s a truce… it’s because we said so. You don’t have shit to do with it. So fuck off and hope that we don’t change our mind.”

O’Malley’s eyes roamed over them. Over the four surrounding Donut, a protective wall of assholes. The red that that had been flickering in the corners of Donut’s vision all day… never quite in view, never close until Donut was alone… it seemed faded, not vivid like it’d been on the edge of Donut’s vision. And O’Malley… he seemed smaller than he once had.

O’Malley took a step back. His grin reappeared on his face, but his eyes… his eyes were pissed.

“If that’s what you want to think,” he said. He turned and he left.

The simmering anger in Donut’s stomach didn’t go away. But the fear… the buzzing electricity that was frying his nerves every time he’d seen that glimpse of red out of the corner of his eye… that started to calm down. Donut’s grip loosened on the shiv, leaving it in his pocket as he withdrew his hands from them.

The moment O’Malley was gone, Grif rounded on Donut.

“You fucking idiot!” he yelled.

“Grif, chill, he’s fine,” Tucker said dismissively.

“What were you thinking? God, ask for help next time. Don’t go picking fights with the crazy guy on your own! Dumbass!” Grif pointed at Donut. “I’m not losing someone else this fuckin’ quick. Come on.” Grif grabbed Donut’s arm and started pulling him in the direction of the cells.

“I had it under control,” Donut muttered.

“Like fuck you did!”

“ _You did not have it under control. You’re an idiot,_ ” Lopez said. “ _We’re all idiots. We should have killed him. He would have snapped like a toothpick. I’d do it on my own. But, uh... I let slip to Sheila that I was going to murder him and she yelled at me,_ ” he finished, voice tinged with regret.

“Lopez, no-one understands what the fuck you’re on about. Speak English!” Tucker protested.

“He said if he murders anyone that Sheila’ll cut off his supply of toothpicks and his teeth’ll get all gunky,” Donut translated.

“Whipped,” Tucker laughed.

“ _Nevermind, it’s just all of you that are idiots._ ” Lopez reached out and flicked Donut’s ear, earning an annoyed yelp. “ _But I do still owe you for saving me from the gorilla. Don’t be a moron and die before I can pay it back._ ”

“Alright, we done here? Because I got shit to do and assholes to block out,” Church said. He pointed at Donut. “And Grif’s right, you’re a dipshit. Don’t do it again, Dye-Job.”

Church left, hurrying ahead. Tucker picked up the pace, following Church’s footsteps away and only occasionally reaching out to touch the walls and check where he was. Lopez muttered something about not going back to the cell blocks if it was going to be sad and gay again, and how such a thing would ruin his sunny disposition, before leaving in the direction of the infirmary.

When Grif and Donut rounded the corner, Caboose was waiting there and fiddling with his fingers. He let out a sigh of relief upon seeing Donut. Donut gave him an exasperated look.

“You went and got them, didn’t you?” Donut sighed.

Caboose bounced on his feet awkwardly before mumbling, “It was scary.”

“Well, he just got me,” Grif said. “Came running into my cell yelling ‘Apple Crumble is going to fight O’Malley.’ Everyone else just kinda overheard and tagged along.”

Donut looked at Caboose, who was staring at the floor and fiddling with his fingers, and Grif, who was still looking pissed. He looked at the ground. “Didn’t want to mix you up in it.”

“Then don’t fucking do it! Ask for help or stop fighting people, jesus.” Grif threw his arms in the air. “Fuckin’ scrappy broody hen motherfucker pecking people’s faces and shit.”

Caboose nodded seriously in agreement. “Yes. Donut is a bird.”

Donut frowned. He let Grif drag him along, Caboose following behind going into a tangent about birds. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or relieved about Caboose getting help, and neglected to thank him for it.

 

* * *

 

O’Malley was livid as he stormed through the corridors, feet carrying him without any conscious input.

How dare they. They really thought they were better than him? That he was nothing? He’d show them. He’d show them big time. They’d see who was stronger when they found the little pastry mangled and violated and strung up by his neck. Maybe he’d pick them off one by one. Make sure not to leave any of them or anyone they held dear out of his fun.

They’d see. They’d all see.

His feet stopped. He realised he was in front of Doc’s therapy office. Doc had pasted a little sign to the outside of the door. A happy cartoon duck with ‘ready to listen’ written across the bottom in big, block letters.

O’Malley stared at this sign for a moment. And an odd calm overtook him.

They meant nothing. The pastry and Church and all their stupid friends… they didn’t mean anything. Let them think what they wanted.

O’Malley had what he wanted.

So let them think it was all part of their own plan. Let them think that until O’Malley was sick of Doc. And then they’d realise how wrong they were. But until then, what was the harm in letting them believe they were on top?

Yes.

Yes, this was fine.

He was still in control.

He shoved open the door and headed inside Doc’s office, and let any lingering doubts disappear.


	32. Chapter Twenty-Four: Almost Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month after the riot, visitor's day occurs once again. Church gives Donut some advice. Doc tries to talk to O'Malley about his childhood. And the new warden arrives.

Grif could not remember dreading anything this much.

He stared apprehensively at the door to the visitor’s room. He tried to remember former dread, but he couldn’t. Worse things had happened, of course. Like the riot. Like Simmons. But he’d never had time to dread it. It had all been over so quickly.

How did he explain this? ‘You see, Sister, Simmons died because of a psycho that worshipped a piece of red fabric.’ That seemed like such an inadequate reason for her 'brother-in-law' (well, Sister always insisted he was a brother-in-law) to… to… How did he even say it? How did he break the news? Simmons passed away? Fuck no, he didn’t pass away. That made it sound like Simmons had just fallen asleep one day. Like it’d been peaceful. It hadn’t been fucking peaceful, it’d been…

God, just thinking about this was making Grif's chest hurt again. He wondered if Simmons would have been better at it. Simmons was a neurotic weirdo, but he’d been a little better with words. With explaining. If only because normally Grif couldn’t be fucked to explain. Considering the social awkwardness, though, maybe Simmons would be even worse.

Maybe he could delay another month. Sister had only given birth last week. She’d barely gotten out of hospital. She’d called him a few days ago to tell him about it. Sister still hadn’t named the kid, and was still considering naming him after their mother. Grif had to re-explain why you didn't name boys after female relatives, regardless of how much facial hair those female relatives had.

Grif tried to focus on something else. He wasn't alone in the corridor. Tucker was standing nearby, fidgeting madly. He kept fiddling with the aqua cloth wrapped around his eyes.

“Is my scarf on right? Are the scars covered?” Tucker mumbled.

“Mostly. About as good as you’re gonna get,” Grif said.

“Okay. Okay...”

The bandages had recently been removed from Tucker's eyes. However, Tucker had kept them covered as often as possible. Grif had only seen the actual injury once, when they showered the day before. Tucker's face had not been a pretty sight. The top half was covered in painful-looking, lumpy scars. One eyelid could still open and shut, but the actual eye had been removed and replaced by a completely white prosthetic. Not designed to pass as real, just to fill up space and stop Tucker’s face from collapsing. The other eye was sealed close, and it left Tucker’s face in a perpetual grotesque wink. For the entire shower, Tucker had kept his face down. Ashamed, even if he couldn’t see how it looked.

Maybe he could sense that a lot of inmates kept glancing at the injuries, with somewhat satisfied expressions. Tucker had a lot of enemies, after all. There had even been a small part of Grif who’d felt good looking at it. Misery loves company and that love is much stronger if it's someone you hate. But only a small part. The rest of him just felt pity.

Although at that moment he would have traded their situations. ‘Hey, Tucker, I'll give you my eyes if you pass onto Sister the news about Simmons.’ But that wasn't how injuries and responsibilities worked.

Fucking responsibilities.

The door to the visitor's room swung open. North was there. He gestured at Tucker, before remembering that Tucker couldn't see him.

"Tucker? You can go in now. You need some help?"

"I don't need any damn charity," Tucker grumbled, before feeling his way to the door. North shrugged before shutting the door. Grif was left alone again, with nothing to keep his mind off the pain in his chest and the dread of having to pass some of this pain off to Sister.

 

* * *

 

Tucker did need charity. He could get through the door by himself. But he couldn't actually find his way to where Junior would be waiting. He couldn't sense that by feeling around, since there was a wall of glass between him and any visitors.

"Erm. Okay. I do kinda need some help."

North guided him gently along. Tucker strained his ears, trying to hear any hint of Sangheili. Any sign of his son. And all he could rely on was hearing. He would only be able to hear Junior for the next decade, at least.

Eventually North stopped Tucker and turned him around, before guiding him to a chair. "Here you go. Call me when you want to leave."

"I can figure out how to leave," Tucker grumbled, sitting down. Was he facing Junior? He couldn't tell. For all he knew, North could have sat him in front of someone else as a joke. "Junior? You there?"

There was silence. Tucker wondered if it was because he was sitting in the wrong place or because Junior wasn't saying anything.

"Junior?"

And then there was three 'words.'

“BLARGH HONK FUCK?!”

Tucker almost fell out of his chair. "Whoa! Okay, first off. Who taught you that language? And I mean that in at least two different ways. Where'd you learn the swearwords? You're not supposed to know that stuff at eleven. I mean, I did, but that's because your grandmother's clients were really foul-mouthed and the walls were super thin. And when did you learn a word of English? Only English I've ever heard you speak is 'Bow Chika Honk Honk,' and you know that is genetic."

The response was in strained Sangheili.

"No more English besides that, huh?"

Silence. Junior could have been nodding or shaking his head. Or dancing the hula, for all Tucker knew.

"Okay, but English would make this so much more understandable. Where were we?"

There was a stream of worried chatter.

"He's pointing at your bandana," North stage-whispered. "I think he wants to know about the... you know.”

"Shut up, North! I didn't ask for your help…" Tucker reached up and touched the aqua fabric over his eyes. Well, presumably aqua. He only had Church’s word on it, really. "This, huh?"

The reply sounded affirmative.

"Oh, there was a riot a few weeks back. There was a guy who angry because..." Tucker trailed off. He didn't want to tell Junior he'd talked a man into suicide once, albeit accidentally. "Doesn't matter why. Point is, he attacked me. And I'm a little bit blind. But no biggie, right?"

Junior let out a concerned whine.

"Oh, it's not as painful as it could be. Don't worry about it. It just means I... won't be able to see you get taller. You can describe your height to me, it'll be fine. Exaggerate, if you want," Tucker joked. He couldn’t quite make himself smile.

The sound of paper being unfolded reached his ears.

"I heard that. What're you holding?"

"Pencil drawing," North mumbled.

Tucker kind of wanted to snap at North again, but this time he refrained. "Pencil drawing, huh? Was it for me?"

Junior made a high-pitched noise.

"Well, not being able to see it is kind of a bummer. But I can still keep it. Haven't taken your pictures down. It'll be fine. I’ll get Church to describe it to me. It's... fine…"

Tucker wanted to see the picture Junior was holding. Tucker wanted to see Junior. He wanted to see the colour blue. He just wanted his goddamn sight back. He really wanted to cry. But he couldn't. His eyes were too fucked. Tears didn't come out of them any more.

Instead, Tucker pressed his hand against the glass. "I'm sorry, Junior. I really did want to see you grow up."

He felt a slight creak come from the glass. He knew Junior had pressed his hand against the glass as well.

 

* * *

 

Just walking to where Sister was sitting felt like walking the last mile.

It took Grif a few moments to even recognise Sister. She was much more unkempt than he was used to seeing. She was wearing more modest, baggy clothes (probably to help conceal the baby weight) and had no make-up on. She also looked very tired.

"Kids. Are. Fucking. Noisy," she grumbled as soon as Grif sat down.

"I take it this 'giving-birth-to-a-Grifspawn' thing hasn't been great?”

"Eh, good and bad. I mean, he's adorable. I guess his dad must have been pretty, although I can't remember who it was... Also, he's got me as a mother, so that means he's gonna look awesome. But... so noisy. And poop everywhere! How does he poop so much? He’s tiny!"

"Gross."

"I know, right?"

"Okay, sis... first off, where the hell is the kid?"

"I didn't bring him with me. I do not want to have to explain why his uncles are in prison right now. Because he doesn't know words yet, so I'd have to explain it later anyway."

Grif's stomach twisted when Sister pluralized the word 'uncle.'

"I left him with a neighbour,” Sister continued. “Not one that's a crack addict, either."

"So, you haven't locked him in a cupboard or tried to sell him to anyone?"

"Of course not, Dex! ...Okay, I might have had a brief urge to sell the kid on the way home from the hospital, but that was a split-second freakout. Just because once I put a kid in a cupboard when I was babysitting at fifteen doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it with my actual kid."

Grif could only cover his face. "Oh, god…"

"Don't worry, Dex, I got this mothering thing down. Look, I brought a picture! Wanna see?" Sister rifled around in her bag before pulling out a photo and pressing it against the glass screen. "Ain't that the most adorable kid ever?"

Grif stared at the picture for a few moments. He actually thought it was one of the uglier kids he'd ever. In all honesty, the kid was shaped a bit like a red, screaming traffic cone. He'd clearly inherited looks from his grandmother. But there were worse things in the world than traffic cone nephews.

...Holy shit, he was really an uncle. Sister really was a mother and it wasn't some weird bullshit that she made up while high on three kinds of drugs.

"Sure. Cute kid." Grif neglected to mention the resemblance to traffic cones. "Got a name for him yet?"

"I'm still thinking on it."

"I still say name him Bruce Lee."

"Never."

Normal conversation. Given the circumstances, probably as normal as it could have gotten. Grif started hoping that Simmons just wouldn't come up in conversation.

"Ooh, I need to show this to Simmons!"

Fuck.

Sister was craning her head a little, trying to see through the door on Grif's side of the visitor's room. Grif had to tell her now. There was no way he could back out like a coward.

"Sis… Kai... I have something to tell you. About Simmons.”

"Shit, you used my name. That’s not good. What is it? Is he mad at me?" Sister frowned slightly, thinking. "Why would he be mad at me?"

"He's not—"

"Is this because I used his old computer to download porn? Because he said I could use it. He said it'd be a ridiculously old model by the time he was released, and it doesn't work that well compared to all the shiny stuff nowadays already…"

"Sister. Be quiet for a minute," Grif said, teeth gritted. Her babbling was not making this any easier.

"Okay."

"About... a month ago? I think?" Grif had long since lost track of the days since the riot. "There was a riot. A bad one. During it, Simmons got..." Grif struggled with his words for a moment. "He got attacked. This guy… this nutter who worshipped the flag that used to hang over the prison… he just... just stabbed him."

"Stabbed? Is he in the infirmary?" Sister asked. Even as she asked this, her eyes had gotten wider. An inkling of realization was starting to appear.

"No. He..." Grif shut his eyes. The pain in his chest that he'd had since the riot spiked painfully. "Sis, he’s dead."

There was a long stretch of silence. Grif was expecting Sister to cry right away. Or something along those lines. Sister was just staring at him. She'd gone pale, making the shadows under her eyes stand out a lot more.

"...No. No, he can't be. That... that just makes no sense, why would anyone attack... No-one would attack Simmons, if they were going to attack anyone they'd attack you because you always steal food and yell at people and prison people don't like that! They wouldn't attack Simmons, he... he... Dex, if this is some really horrible joke, I'm going to punch through this glass and strangle you!"

Grif didn't say anything. What could he say? And then Sister thumped her fist on the glass anyway, not that it did any good.

"You... you jerk! How could you not tell me this?! How could you keep this a secret! How could you?! How could you?! You... you…"

"It... it was an accident, at first," Grif mumbled. "I forgot."

"How could you forget something like that?!"

“I don't know, alright?! I was just… I didn’t keep track of anything, I just… I just couldn’t think about anything else besides how fucked shit was! And then, that time I called you... when you were freaking out about the kid? I'd meant to tell you then. But you were terrified and freaking out and... and it didn't feel right. I didn't want to add to your stress. I know that's a shitty excuse, but…"

"You're freaking right, it's a shitty excuse!" Sister half-screamed. Her voice kept cracking. "And what happened to the other guy?"

"Other guy?"

"The flag guy! The buttfaced fabric cultist that killed him! What happened to him?!"

"He's dead." Grif said shortly. He didn't add that he'd been the one to kill him. The guards had never charged him for that, probably because no-one had come forth to condemn him. Not even O'Malley, though who knew why. Maybe he'd been too distracted by Lopez and Donut to notice the death of his little follower.

"Good. I hope he's getting his dick bitten off in Hell," Sister muttered bitterly.

She planted her forehead in her hands. Grif just stayed quiet. He was a little afraid she was going to start screaming again.

"It's... definitely not a bad joke?" Sister asked. "Definitely not?"

"Sorry."

Sister's face crumpled up and she hid it in her hands again.

There was silence between them for a few minutes. Grif couldn't think of anything else to say. And he couldn't rely on Sister's babbling to fill in the silence because she still had her face buried in her hands. Physical contact wasn't an option. How could they hug through the glass? Regardless of how much Grif wanted to comfort her like Donut had done for him.

"Dex?" Sister's voice was quiet, but it finally broke the silence. She peered between her fingers. Her eyes were red. She'd definitely been crying, then. "Dex, you... you won't do anything stupid, will you?"

"What?"

"You won't do anything stupid. Like... I don't know. I mean, you and Simmons... you were gonna get married and all that."

"We were never gonna get married. That shit's for sissies. And Simmons wouldn't wear the dress." Although that mental image actually made him smile a little. Simmons would have looked awful in lace.

"But you were really close. Really, really close. He went to prison for you and everything..." Sister leaned forward, pressing her hands against the window. "Please, don’t...” Sister stopped. She clearly couldn’t even voice what she was thinking. Sister dancing around words was unusual. She normally spewed out insensitive comments with little more than a second thought. If she was being vague, that meant just contemplating it was hurting her.

Losing two brothers so quickly would hurt like a bitch, after all.

Part of Grif still wanted to die. To find some way, even with Donut hiding his shiv. That had been in the back of his head, coming to the front every now and again. Sometimes it would recede, but the thought would always come back again. And maybe it would continue to do so for a long time.

But the rest of him just focused on Sister. Unkempt, suddenly hesitant Sister. The sister he'd given up his freedom for. The sister who he'd do it all again for. Who would probably fuck up royally in some way if he wasn't there to hold her hand, even if she insisted that she was fine. Plus, that little kid of hers would need some kind of masculine figure in his life. And what better one than a drunk, jailed uncle? Okay, probably a lot of better things, but that was beside the point.

"Don't worry, Sister. I'm not gonna do anything stupid."

Sister smiled sadly back at him. "Awesome."

“But, uh… can you do one thing for me?”

“Grif, really? You think I’m gonna say no? ‘Course I will, loser.”

Grif nodded before removing the half-eaten bag of Oreos (at this stage, stale and crumbly) and a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it from his pocket. He put them in front of him.

“Flowers wrote down where… where Simmons was buried. Can you leave these oreos on his grave? I dunno, it’s just… Simmons wasn’t much of a flowers guy, and these were meant to be his, so… I mean, they’re stale as fuck, but ghosts don’t care.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no problem. Neighbour can watch my kid for a little longer, and… and I need to see. It doesn’t… it won’t feel real otherwise, and I kinda want it to not feel real but...”

“I getcha. Thanks. And tell him… tell him...”

Grif had a lot of things that he’d tell Simmons if he had the chance. Some of them were dumb. Some of them were stuff like ‘nerd’ and ‘dumbass’ and ‘why’d you have to go and get stabbed.’ But some of them were things like ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you so much and I wish I’d told you that properly.’

“Just tell him he’s a dumbass and I’ll come and see him when I get out,” Grif said outloud.

Sister nodded soberly. “Okay. I’ll tell him.” She was fiddling around with the picture of her new son. She glanced down at it. "...I guess that solves one problem."

"Eh?”

"Remember? You said we couldn't name the kid after Simmons because... because kids were only named after dead people." Her voice hitched briefly as she explained.

"Oh." Grif frowned slightly at the picture of the cone-like baby. "I... I don't know."

"Why?"

"Well, for one... it's cheesy as hell. But... I dunno, I guess being reminded of Simmons so often is... is..." Grif didn't finish the sentence. He'd been so determined, not long after the riot, to try and obliterate any memory of Simmons through alcohol. Just so it wouldn't hurt any more. But he knew... no matter how much fermented orange juice he drank, no matter how much he hit his head against the wall…

He knew there was no possible way he could ever forget about Simmons. He'd never forget that whine and all that nerdy shit he'd always read and his stupid, smug smile. Unforgettable. All of it. No matter how much it hurt, Grif would have to remember it.

And maybe remembering it all wasn't such a bad thing. If he had to hurt, he might as well remember the good as well as the bad.

"Dex?"

"Never mind. I guess it's as good a name as any. But leave off the 'Dick' part, or I'm gonna be obligated to call him 'the little wiener.'"

"Wait, how will it work, then? Do I use Simmons' last name as his first name or his middle name as his first name or…"

"I have no idea. ...What were Simmons' parents thinking when they named him 'Dick Shirley Simmons?' No matter how you put that... see, that's why me and Simmons never got married. Because 'Dick Grif' sounds stupid."

"Um. Should I just stay with Simmons Shirley Grif?"

"Eh. Make his middle name something manly. ...Like Bruce Lee."

"Grif!"

"Okay, fine. Simmons Shirley Grif. ...He's gonna get picked on, but I guess it's better than his name being 'Dick' or 'Richard Simmons.' Let's just hope he doesn't pick up his namesake's nerdiness."

 

* * *

 

Donut was doing laundry. He’d fallen behind recently. Watching Grif didn’t leave much time for it. And after the incident with O’Malley, a couple of weeks back, it was also difficult to escape Grif. Bringing Grif along while he washed laundry resulted in complaining, but trying to leave him behind always turned into ‘are you going to fight someone?’ On the plus side, it was easy for Donut to keep an eye on Grif if they were both keeping an eye on each other.

Right now Grif was in the visitor’s room, so it was just him and Caboose. Caboose sat next to him, babbling about how he’d wanted to visit Sheila—since it was visitor’s day and Sheila was the only visitor he’d ever had—but that Lopez had gotten all grumpy at him when he’d turned up. Donut listened with one ear.

The shiv was still in Donut’s pocket and hadn’t left it in almost two weeks. Donut would still habitually pat his pocket to make sure it was there.

“Hey, Dye-Job.”

Donut didn’t look up from folding the current set of pants. “That nickname stopped making sense five years ago, Church.”

“Yeah, but fuck it.” Church approached, hands in his pockets.

As he did so, Caboose gave Church a frown, muttered something ‘I have to go because of reasons’ and wandered off towards the other side of the yard. Donut watched Caboose leave, then returned his attention to Church.

“Well?”

Church pointed at the bucket of water that sat at Donut’s feet. “How soft’s the laundry you do?”

“How soft? Church, I am a god of laundry. It’s like wearing clouds,” Donut said. “Why? You want your stuff washed?”

“Nah, not me. But Tucker’s been bitching about his clothes being too scratchy lately. I guess the blindness is making him notice the other senses more? But he wouldn’t approach you himself because ‘fabric softener is too feminine’ or something.”

“Trick him into wearing a softened jumpsuit, then?”

“Anything to stop him bitching.”

“I can get behind that subterfuge. But if you wanna jump queue you need to get me more fabric softener. I’m running out and Flowers shot my source,” Donut said, hanging up the pants and directing his attention to a bundle of underwear.

“Eh. I’ll think about it.” Church looked over at Caboose, who had not left the yard but instead decided to mill around the edges, occasionally glancing over to see if Church was gone. “Caboose taking up babysitting duty, huh? He and Grif got you locked down. I thought you were the one meant to be looking after them.”

“I know, right?”

Church rested against the wall, watching Donut with slightly narrowed eyes. “Do they need to keep an eye on you? Are you gonna go fight O’Malley the moment they look away?”

“I mean… none of your business if I am.” Donut frowned at the pair of underwear he was holding, as he tested to see how much stretch they’d retained. “Honestly, don’t see why you care. We’re not exactly bosom buddies.”

“Ugh. Never say that again.”

“Seriously, though. Why?”

Church shrugged. “Why not? Sure, O’Malley’s a shitbag and I’m sick of him. I’d love to see him get his head smashed in for good. But I just don’t think you’d win. Physically, I’d say you two are about even—he’s old but he’s pretty spry, and you don’t really got too much going for you—“

“Hey, that’s not fair! I’m flexible, it’s all in the sinew.”

“Sure, Donut. Sure. Anyway, that means it all comes down to technique. And honestly, you’d hesitate.” Church grinned at him. “You’re too fucking nice. You’d never win one-on-one unless you practiced on other guys first.”

“Jesus Christ, Church, I’m not a monster,” Donut said, appalled.

“Exactly. You have to be an asshole to not hesitate.” Church gestured at himself. “Take it from me, king of assholes. You’re gonna fucking hesitate.”

“But it’s O’Malley. The world would be better off without him. It’s… it’s different, isn’t it?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not about him, it’s about you.” Church looked over at Caboose. “I mean, you take care of Caboose. Yelled at me for fucking with his head. Called me out when I forced a kiss on Tucker, even though before that you’d been cooing about love and shit. An asshole would have left Grif to deal with his grief on his own. I guess you could excuse that with ‘they’re on the row’ but you also saved York from a bunch of insane flag nutters. If you were like the rest of us, you would have just left him to die. But you didn’t. And that’s why you’ll hesitate. So get off this damn murder boner already.”

Donut said nothing for a while, still absently stretching the waistband of the underwear he was holding.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Donut said slowly. “Should I just wait for O’Malley to change his mind on this truce and attack me while I’m unprepared? Should I just wait until he stabs me or someone I care about? I’m tired of waiting to be attacked. Maybe I want to end this before it happens again.”

“It won’t happen again. O’Malley can’t do anything without numbers, and he knows it. That’s why he targets the vulnerable. So suck it up, or at least bring a bunch of assholes with you so they can crush him for you.”

Church took a few steps away, then turned around.

“Also, if you don’t get help and you die in the attempt… well, that’ll mess with Grif and Caboose much worse than not bringing them with you. I’d give them a week before they self-detonate. It’ll be disaster dominos and that’ll just mess up all my business schemes.”

“Oh no, not the business schemes.”

“Right? So don’t fuck it up.”

Donut responded by halfheartedly tossing a pair of soaked underwear at Church. After watching Church flail and swear in response before leaving, Donut picked up the pair of underwear and dunked it back in the bucket. Donut absently scrubbed the underwear for a couple of minutes, thinking.

“Fuck,” he said finally.

 

* * *

 

Doc was pretty sure O’Malley was barely restraining himself from jumping at him. He looked twitchy today.

At least O’Malley didn’t look angry. Not like a couple of weeks ago, when O’Malley had shoved the door open with a clouded, furious expression. That had not been a good day. Just thinking about it made the still-healing scar on Doc’s chest sting. O’Malley had made a point that day to press on it, as if to remind Doc of its existence.

Still, twitchy was bad. Doc tried to pretend that any amount of twitchy energy—twitchy meant either violent, frisky or both—didn’t bother him.

"Now, O'Malley..." Doc tried to look over his glasses in that way therapists did in the movies, like they knew something the other person didn’t. All it did was make his glasses fall off his face. He picked them up quickly, flushing. "Erm, tell me about your childhood."

"Why? Are you going to study me for events that excuse every evil thing I've done?" O'Malley grinned. "You'd find it difficult to excuse the things I've done. It would save time to skip childhood."

“I’m not looking for excuses. But the childhood is an important starting point nonetheless.”

“Oh, well, if you say so,” O’Malley said sarcastically. He stretched out on the couch, propping his feet up. "It all started when an alien spaceship flew by one day, kidnapped my parents and replaced them with clones. These clones ate nothing but lettuce and cactus. And so, naturally, I was also forced to eat lettuce and cactus. One day they accidentally acquired a cactus filled with tarantulas, and the poison got into my brain and dissolved the part of my brain that feels empathy."

“Are tarantulas poisonous?” Doc asked curiously.

“I just said they were, didn’t I?” O’Malley sat up again. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“No. No, of course not. ...I mean, I would imagine the tarantulas wouldn’t survive the digestion process—“

“I’m hurt by this.” O’Malley’s voice was taking on that amused tone, and he was shifting more in his seat. Like a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

Doc instinctively put his hand out. “Sit still, we’ve still got some questions to go through.”

"Are you trying to boss me around? Being more assertive, are we? Not like you at all..." O'Malley grinned widely. "Taking some influence from Wash, are you? I wouldn't. He's too unstable, that one. He can't be fixed."

Doc ignored him. "Do you want to move onto the next question or do you want to bring this session to a close?"

A flicker of rage at the brush-off moved across O’Malley’s face, only to be suppressed by his usual grin. He thought about it for a moment.

"Well, I'd hate to deprive you of my company," he said finally. "Besides, I like this new assertive Doc. This… variety. Like adding a new spice to a familiar meal. Delicious." O’Malley leaned forward, giving Doc that predatory smile. “It’ll make you more fun to break.”

Doc looked down and didn’t reply. Maybe because he knew, even better than O’Malley did, that it was probably how this game was going to end. Doc was only able to stop himself from shaking because he knew he had the advantage. He could leave and O’Malley couldn’t. But that wouldn’t hold O’Malley off forever.

If someone like Wash could only withstand three months of O’Malley before breaking—albeit three solid months of darkness and torture—then how long did someone as weak as Doc have? How long did Doc have, considering that no-one would ever save him from this? Considering that sometimes he thought he didn’t deserve to be saved?

This would end badly. One day, Doc would lose.

It was enough to make him want to flee. But he thought about the photos of blood soaking the cafeteria floor, all because he’d left. Because he hadn’t been here to hold O’Malley back. He thought about the coffee shop. About the lack of purpose. About how useless he’d been before now.

And he thought about Wash. About Wash sitting on the same sofa that O’Malley now sprawled on. Telling him everything and holding nothing back, after fifteen years of holding it in.

At the end of it, Wash had smiled. Just a little. Barely noticeable. The smile of relief of someone who’s just put down a heavy box of groceries. But just that… something so small as a few muscles twitching on someone’s face… had made Doc feel like for once he’d done something right.

It was thinking about that which let Doc look up and meet O’Malley’s gaze. The smile he gave O’Malley was different from the little relieved one Wash had given him. It was wider. It didn’t reach his eyes at all.

“So. Tarantulas, you said?” Doc asked politely. “What happened after that?”

Another glimmer of rage. Of recognition, even. A tiny realization that something had changed, though not enough to wipe that grin from O’Malley’s face.

If Doc could bring warmth to people, he didn’t mind eventually burning in the fire.

 

* * *

 

When Flowers pushed open the door to Sarge's office, he found Sarge going through his desk. He was pulling out objects at random and throwing them into a cardboard box.

"You've left packing a bit late, haven't you?" Flowers asked. "When did you say the new warden would be here?"

"Er, about five minutes ago. Sent South down to get them. Maybe they got attacked on the way up," Sarge said hopefully. "Then the new guy will run off and the Chairman will see that I'm the only one with the aggots to keep this job."

"Of course." Flowers sat down. "So, decided what you're going to do after this?"

"I'll probably lie about my age so I can get work somewhere that allows me to fight people. Handsome devil that I am, it won't take too much to convince them." Sarge paused for a moment before adding, “Might join a croquet team or some other retired fellow group. Obviously I intend to die in battle, but I might as well see what I’m missing.”

Flowers chuckled. "Good plan."

"I know. All my plans are good!" Sarge insisted as he tossed an empty whiskey bottle and a pack of cards into the box. Just then, they heard voices coming from outside.

"And back there was Doc's office. He's apparently a therapist. We thought he was gonna do a shit job, but apparently he got Wash—who's a complete asshole, by the way, loony bin—to talk to him, so the other guards are running a bet on whether Doc has mind control powers or is just really persuasive. But you probably don't care, so anyway... here's Sarge's… well, your office. Questions?"

"Do I have to tip you for the tour?"

"Ha. I mean, if you’re offering…"

The doors were shoved open and a woman walked in. She was short and most of her clothing was white.

"Hey. I'm going to take a wild guess and assume you're the former warden and the captain,” she said. “I was told by that you were a 'lunatic ex-soldier with a ridiculous vendetta against the colour blue' and a 'girly-haired guy who acts like a misplaced elementary school teacher.'"

"Er. I didn't say that," South muttered from outside, quickly leaving before they could call her out on it.

"Oh, perfect. So not only am I being replaced, but I'm being replaced by a woman?" Sarge grumbled.

"Sarge. You're being politically incorrect," Flowers said calmly.

"Shut it, girlylocks. I've got no job here, I can be as politically incorrect to the management as I want." Sarge glared at the new warden. "So, what's your name, lady?"

"You can call me Niner.”

"Niner ain't a name."

"Don't you insist that everyone call you Sarge?"

"Why, the insubordination and mockery. Hmph.” Sarge threw the last remaining items into the cardboard box. "You find you can't handle it, just call me back."

"Won't be necessary, Sarge. I got this," Niner said. "I think being female is less of a handicap than being close to dying of old age."

"I'm not that old! I'm only sixty, I've got many years left, just you wait. Besides, I'm sure I can invent some sort of immortality invention, with all the free time I've got now... so we'll see who's laughing when you're shrivelled like a prune and I'm still all springy."

"Yeah, I look forward to it," Niner said dryly.

"Alright, then. I guess that's just about everything, ain't it? Ah, one more thing. Lady, I'm gonna need you to turn around and block your ears."

"What."

"This is a private matter!"

"Then do it outside?"

"Well, if you're going to be difficult about it," Sarge grumbled. "Girlylocks, outside."

Sarge didn't say anything at first. He just started to carry his things down to the parking lot. Flowers followed him patiently, waiting to hear what he wanted to say. He followed Sarge right to the doors that led out into the parking lot. Then Sarge came to a halt and turned around.

"Well. This is it, Girlylocks. And I've got something to say to you." Sarge shifted the box he was holding to his left hand. "You are a diabolical, evil, no-good stinking dirtbag Blue."

"Yes, I know."

"Of course you know, because it's gods-honest truth. But." Sarge sighed. "Look. I'm only ever gonna say this once and if you tell anyone that I said it, then I'll bludgeon you with a steamroller."

"Where would you get that?"

"Never mind that now. Flowers... you were a good captain. And even if you were a no-good Blue sympathizer and a criminal mastermind... you did a good job at keeping 'em all inside the walls and were just dandy to play card games with. Couldn't ask for anything more than that, apart from a bit more Red loyalty."

Flowers blinked several times. It took him a while to find his words. "...Wow. Did you just—"

"Yep, that was a compliment. Don't let it get to you."

Sarge grinned at him and, balancing his box of belongings in one hand before giving Flowers a salute. Flowers returned the gesture. They held the salute for a moment before Sarge turned back to the door.

"Don't let that lady mess up my prison!" he yelled.

"I won't." As Sarge shoved open the door, Flowers called out, "We're still going for drinks later, right?"

"Of course, that's a goddamn tradition!"

And with those parting words, Sarge left the prison for the last time. Flowers gazed at the doors for a few moments before turning around and walking back to Sarge's... no, Niner's office.

He had the sneaking suspicion that she'd be more reluctant to play Go Fish.

 

* * *

 

Donut sat on his bunk, turning the shiv over in his hands. Like he’d done so sporadically since the riot, thinking about what he should have done. What he wished he’d done. Thoughts that would have been unthinkable so recently.

He knew if he kept this shiv, that he would constantly be thinking about using it.

Donut put it back in his pocket before leaving his cell. As he did so he heard movement behind him.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you stick that in your pocket,” Grif muttered.

“Did it go well? With Sister?” Donut asked. He set off down the corridor, and Grif tailed behind him.

“About as good as it could, I guess.”

Grif looked downcast, but not in a way that made Donut fear for what he might do. He looked like he was thinking about something. As they walked along, getting further out of the cell block, Grif abruptly snorted.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, one corner of his mouth turning up a little.

“Hm?”

“Ah… I was just thinking about shit, and… I was looking at the blue line, y’know?” Grif nodded his head down at the blue line painted in front of one side of the cell blocks. “And… you remember that time when Simmons decided that the pruno-and-old-socks smell coming from my cell was ‘cause for mutiny’ or some shit?”

“Oh yeah, I remember that. And then he switched to the Blue sport team. ...That was a weird day.” Donut recalled Simmons flailing around on that little patch of dirt, perpetually mixing up which team he was telling to ‘suck it,’ and couldn’t help but grin a little.

“Simmons sure loved his traitorous bullshit,” Grif said fondly. “He probably threatened to move out a hundred times over the old sock smell and oreos under the couch cushions. He never actually did, he’d just end up spraying the place with air freshener. Carried on into here, actually.”

“In fairness, your cell does smell disgusting.”

“Yeah, but he’d still drink the alcohol once it was ready. Damn hypocrite. Didn’t get that it’s a process.” Grif nodded. “Gotta take the good with the bad, y’know? ...I guess I just forgot about the good for a while.”

“...Are we still talking about alcohol?”

“I mean, I could go for some alcohol.” Grif looked down as the lines of red and blue paint ended, and Donut turned and headed off in a different direction. “Hey, Donut? Where the fuck are we going?”

“Laundry chute.”

“You never use the laundry chute. You told me the soap used in the laundry room was an abomination,” Grif said.

“And I stand by that statement,” Donut said seriously.

They rounded a corner, arriving at the little chute in which the majority of inmates disposed of their clothing in. Donut had used it a few times early on in his prison experience, then acquired fabric softener and a bucket and never looked back.

Donut pulled open the chute, looking inside for a moment. Then he removed the shiv from his pocket. He looked down at the shiv for a moment, hesitating. Then he placed it inside the chute and pushed it shut before he could reconsider. There was a loud clanking noise as the shiv clattered down the metal chute.

Grif watched this without saying anything. After they’d walked away, now heading for the cafeteria, Grif then said, “Kind of a shame. O’Malley really could use a good stabbing.”

“Yeah.” Donut frowned, regret crawling around in his stomach like a poisonous scorpion. “...Grif? I’m really tired of being angry.”

“I feel you. I’m pretty tired of being sad, too.” Grif stuck his hands in his pockets. “Emotions are dumb.”

“So dumb.”

There was a moment of silence. Donut didn’t really know what he and Grif were waiting for. Maybe hoping that declaring that they were sick of an emotion would make it go away. But things weren’t that simple. After that strange, expectant pause the two of them turned and headed towards the cafeteria.

When they got to the cafeteria, the others were already there. Tucker feeling his way around his plate, while Caboose had pushed his seat as far as he could from Church and was now prodding at his food, looking around expectantly. Meanwhile, Lopez had turned up at the table and was holding his tray of food while he argued with Church. Though really it seemed to be two separate arguments due to the language barrier.

“I don’t. Understand. What you’re saying,” Church said slowly.

“ _Talking slowly doesn’t do anything. I understand you. I want to buy cigarettes. Ci-ga-rettes,_ ” Lopez said, slowly speaking the last word in a similar manner that Church had been doing to him.

“I’m not bilingual! Hey, Dye-Job!” Once Church spotted Donut, he quickly waved him over. “Translation. What’s he saying?”

“ _Cigarettes._ _Cigarettes!_ ”

“Church, how do you not get this? Cigarrillos? Half the word’s already there,” Donut huffed. “He’s obviously talking about tamarillos. Tree tomatoes? Can you get those?”

“ _You cannot be this stupid._ ”

“I know, Lopez. The tamarillo is much more versatile than plain old tomatoes.”

“ _I don’t know why I’m surprised._ ” Lopez rolled his eyes and turned to leave for his usual seat.

“Lopez, who do you sit with?” Donut asked.

“ _Silence, mostly._ ”

“Park your keister, meister. Strength in numbers. And you can discuss tree tomatoes with Church.”

“Why would you do this, Dye-Job?” Church sighed.

Lopez rolled his eyes once again, but he sat down at the table anyway. Donut dropped into his own seat next to Caboose, with Grif sitting down next to him. Caboose was gazing at the other side of the room.

“New lady!” Caboose said, pointing.

Donut leaned back to peer past Caboose. A short woman in white clothing was being shown around the room by Flowers.

“New warden,” Church said, glancing around to look. “Tex said they were coming today.”

“So Sarge is gone? Forever?” Grif asked. He put his hands together as if in prayer. “I’d like to thank God, Jesus and Cap’n Crunch for this gift.”

“Dude, forget all that. New lady? As in, a chick?” Tucker, out of instinct, turned his head. “Am I facing the right way? Is she hot?”

“Dude,” Church said, annoyed.

“Hey, I just want to imagine.”

Caboose went back to pushing his food around on his tray. Donut, after watching the new warden and noting that she had the decency to keep primarily white clothes clean and unstained, sat forward again so that Caboose was blocking most of his view. With his height and insane amount of muscle.

“Hey, Caboose?” Donut asked. He reached over and grasped one of Caboose’s wrists, stretching out Caboose’s arm so he could have a better look. Caboose allowed this, continuing to eat with his remaining hand. “How do you stay so fit? You’ve got so much muscle. How do you keep that going in here? There’s no gym.”

“Water bags,” Caboose said.

“What?”

“You get plastic bags—although the guards sometimes take them, because we are not meant to have them. You fill them with water. And then you lift them. They are very heavy. Church told me to do it so I could stop people from trying to hit him. And I like doing it, because I like being strong.” Caboose frowned a little and said, “I do not like being weak.”

Donut let go of Caboose’s arm and patted his shoulder. “Yeah. Me, too. Think you can teach me? I might need a coach.”

Caboose beamed at him. “Okay! It will be nice to do with a friend. It is easier to pretend my arms are not tired that way.”

Donut nodded, picking up his juice box and sticking the straw in.

He wouldn’t go after O’Malley. Not today. But he was sick of being attacked. He didn’t want to be dropped in the infirmary again, and he wanted to protect who was left. So he’d get tougher. He’d lift weights and stretch his hammies. He’d gain muscle and start fitting the aesthetic of the prison.

Then if O’Malley ever came after him again, Donut would be ready. And O’Malley wouldn’t walk away from it.

Donut fiddled with the straw, looking around the table. At Church trying to figure out why Lopez was still talking about tomato plants. At Grif throwing bits of food at Tucker in an attempt to pester him into handing over his orange juice. At Caboose shaping his food into the shape of a smiley face rather than eating it immediately.

Months of pain and arguments and death and grief... but now they were back to this. To arguing and messing around like nothing had happened at all.

Maybe there were scars, physical and emotional, that just wouldn’t heal. Maybe Donut wasn’t going to stop being angry, just like Grif wasn’t going to stop being sad. Maybe the empty seat next to Grif seemed to loom over them like a pissed-off nerdy ghost. Maybe things would never be quite the same, quite whole.

But maybe this was the best it could get.

Donut sipped his orange juice before quickly pulling the box out of Grif’s attempt to stealthily swipe it from his hands.

Maybe this was enough.

 

**End of Volume 2. To be concluded in Volume 3.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, the Wash flashback one-shot 'Debt' has been posted as a separate fic, so go have a look at that if you haven't seen it already. Also forgetting the timeline for now because I need more time to puzzle over it. I'll just add a timeline at the end of Volume 3, probably easier.
> 
> So Vol.2 is done. Some other things relating to Murderer's Row should be posted in the near future. Such as a smut oneshot and the starts of another flashback. Volume 3 I need some time to build a buffer, figure out where it's going (I've got a pretty solid plan but it has some gaps) and figure out what flashbacks will go into Volume 3 rather than being separate. (The one I know is gonna be separate is because it's got a lot of uncomfortable shit so I want people to be able to skip it if necessary.) I also want to go back and do a few tiny edits based on concrit (not anything that changes the plot) and maybe write a couple of other fics in the meantime. (Such as that third part of brothel!AU and second part of superhero!AU.) But I'm hype for Vol. 3 so... yeah.


End file.
